<CHAPTER>
BOOK V. I.

She ceased, and was about to pass on in her discourse to the exposition
of other matters, when I break in and say: 'Excellent is thine
exhortation, and such as well beseemeth thy high authority; but I am
even now experiencing one of the many difficulties which, as thou saidst
but now, beset the question of providence. I want to know whether thou
deemest that there is any such thing as chance at all, and, if so, what
it is.'

Then she made answer: 'I am anxious to fulfil my promise completely, and
open to thee a way of return to thy native land. As for these matters,
though very useful to know, they are yet a little removed from the path
of our design, and I fear lest digressions should fatigue thee, and thou
shouldst find thyself unequal to completing the direct journey to our
goal.'

'Have no fear for that,' said I. 'It is rest to me to learn, where
learning brings delight so exquisite, especially when thy argument has
been built up on all sides with undoubted conviction, and no place is
left for uncertainty in what follows.'

She made answer: 'I will accede to thy request;' and forthwith she thus
began: 'If chance be defined as a result produced by random movement
without any link of causal connection, I roundly affirm that there is no
such thing as chance at all, and consider the word to be altogether
without meaning, except as a symbol of the thing designated. What place
can be left for random action, when God constraineth all things to
order? For "ex nihilo nihil" is sound doctrine which none of the
ancients gainsaid, although they used it of material substance, not of
the efficient principle; this they laid down as a kind of basis for all
their reasonings concerning nature. Now, if a thing arise without
causes, it will appear to have arisen from nothing. But if this cannot
be, neither is it possible for there to be chance in accordance with the
definition just given.'

'Well,' said I, 'is there, then, nothing which can properly be called
chance or accident, or is there something to which these names are
appropriate, though its nature is dark to the vulgar?'

'Our good Aristotle,' says she, 'has defined it concisely in his
"Physics," and closely in accordance with the truth.'

'How, pray?' said I.

'Thus,' says she: 'Whenever something is done for the sake of a
particular end, and for certain reasons some other result than that
designed ensues, this is called chance; for instance, if a man is
digging the earth for tillage, and finds a mass of buried gold. Now,
such a find is regarded as accidental; yet it is not "ex nihilo," for it
has its proper causes, the unforeseen and unexpected concurrence of
which has brought the chance about. For had not the cultivator been
digging, had not the man who hid the money buried it in that precise
spot, the gold would not have been found. These, then, are the reasons
why the find is a chance one, in that it results from causes which met
together and concurred, not from any intention on the part of the
discoverer. Since neither he who buried the gold nor he who worked in
the field _intended_ that the money should be found, but, as I said, it
_happened_ by coincidence that one dug where the other buried the
treasure. We may, then, define chance as being an unexpected result
flowing from a concurrence of causes where the several factors had some
definite end. But the meeting and concurrence of these causes arises
from that inevitable chain of order which, flowing from the
fountain-head of Providence, disposes all things in their due time and
place.'

SONG I.

CHANCE.

    In the rugged Persian highlands,
      Where the masters of the bow
    Skill to feign a flight, and, fleeing,
      Hurl their darts and pierce the foe;
    There the Tigris and Euphrates
      At one source[O] their waters blend,
    Soon to draw apart, and plainward
      Each its separate way to wend.
    When once more their waters mingle
      In a channel deep and wide,
    All the flotsam comes together
      That is borne upon the tide:
    Ships, and trunks of trees, uprooted
      In the torrent's wild career,
    Meet, as 'mid the swirling waters
      Chance their random way may steer.
    Yet the shelving of the channel
      And the flowing water's force
    Guides each movement, and determines
      Every floating fragment's course.
    Thus, where'er the drift of hazard
      Seems most unrestrained to flow,
    Chance herself is reined and bitted,
      And the curb of law doth know.

FOOTNOTES:

[O] This is not, of course, literally true, though the Tigris and
Euphrates rise in the same mountain district.

II.

'I am following needfully,' said I, 'and I agree that it is as thou
sayest. But in this series of linked causes is there any freedom left to
our will, or does the chain of fate bind also the very motions of our
souls?'

'There is freedom,' said she; 'nor, indeed, can any creature be
rational, unless he be endowed with free will. For that which hath the
natural use of reason has the faculty of discriminative judgment, and of
itself distinguishes what is to be shunned or desired. Now, everyone
seeks what he judges desirable, and avoids what he thinks should be
shunned. Wherefore, beings endowed with reason possess also the faculty
of free choice and refusal. But I suppose this faculty not equal alike
in all. The higher Divine essences possess a clear-sighted judgment, an
uncorrupt will, and an effective power of accomplishing their wishes.
Human souls must needs be comparatively free while they abide in the
contemplation of the Divine mind, less free when they pass into bodily
form, and still less, again, when they are enwrapped in earthly members.
But when they are given over to vices, and fall from the possession of
their proper reason, then indeed their condition is utter slavery. For
when they let their gaze fall from the light of highest truth to the
lower world where darkness reigns, soon ignorance blinds their vision;
they are disturbed by baneful affections, by yielding and assenting to
which they help to promote the slavery in which they are involved, and
are in a manner led captive by reason of their very liberty. Yet He who
seeth all things from eternity beholdeth these things with the eyes of
His providence, and assigneth to each what is predestined for it by its
merits:

     '"All things surveying, all things overhearing.'"

SONG II.

THE TRUE SUN.

    Homer with mellifluous tongue
    Phoebus' glorious light hath sung,
      Hymning high his praise;
      Yet _his_ feeble rays
    Ocean's hollows may not brighten,
    Nor earth's central gloom enlighten.

    But the might of Him, who skilled
    This great universe to build,
      Is not thus confined;
      Not earth's solid rind,
    Nor night's blackest canopy,
    Baffle His all-seeing eye.

    All that is, hath been, shall be,
    In one glance's compass, He
      Limitless descries;
      And, save His, no eyes
    All the world survey--no, none!
    _Him_, then, truly name the Sun.

III.

Then said I: 'But now I am once more perplexed by a problem yet more
difficult.'

'And what is that?' said she; 'yet, in truth, I can guess what it is
that troubles you.'

'It seems,' said I, 'too much of a paradox and a contradiction that God
should know all things, and yet there should be free will. For if God
foresees everything, and can in no wise be deceived, that which
providence foresees to be about to happen must necessarily come to pass.
Wherefore, if from eternity He foreknows not only what men will do, but
also their designs and purposes, there can be no freedom of the will,
seeing that nothing can be done, nor can any sort of purpose be
entertained, save such as a Divine providence, incapable of being
deceived, has perceived beforehand. For if the issues can be turned
aside to some other end than that foreseen by providence, there will not
then be any sure foreknowledge of the future, but uncertain conjecture
instead, and to think this of God I deem impiety.

'Moreover, I do not approve the reasoning by which some think to solve
this puzzle. For they say that it is not because God has foreseen the
coming of an event that _therefore_ it is sure to come to pass, but,
conversely, because something is about to come to pass, it cannot be
hidden from Divine providence; and accordingly the necessity passes to
the opposite side, and it is not that what is foreseen must necessarily
come to pass, but that what is about to come to pass must necessarily be
foreseen. But this is just as if the matter in debate were, which is
cause and which effect--whether foreknowledge of the future cause of the
necessity, or the necessity of the future of the foreknowledge. But we
need not be at the pains of demonstrating that, whatsoever be the order
of the causal sequence, the occurrence of things foreseen is necessary,
even though the foreknowledge of future events does not in itself
impose upon them the necessity of their occurrence. For example, if a
man be seated, the supposition of his being seated is necessarily true;
and, conversely, if the supposition of his being seated is true, because
he is really seated, he must necessarily be sitting. So, in either case,
there is some necessity involved--in this latter case, the necessity of
the fact; in the former, of the truth of the statement. But in both
cases the sitter is not therefore seated because the opinion is true,
but rather the opinion is true because antecedently he was sitting as a
matter of fact. Thus, though the cause of the truth of the opinion comes
from the other side,[P] yet there is a necessity on both sides alike. We
can obviously reason similarly in the case of providence and the future.
Even if future events are foreseen because they are about to happen, and
do not come to pass because they are foreseen, still, all the same,
there is a necessity, both that they should be foreseen by God as about
to come to pass, and that when they are foreseen they should happen, and
this is sufficient for the destruction of free will. However, it is
preposterous to speak of the occurrence of events in time as the cause
of eternal foreknowledge. And yet if we believe that God foresees future
events because they are about to come to pass, what is it but to think
that the occurrence of events is the cause of His supreme providence?
Further, just as when I _know_ that anything is, that thing
_necessarily_ is, so when I know that anything will be, it will
_necessarily_ be. It follows, then, that things foreknown come to pass
inevitably.

'Lastly, to think of a thing as being in any way other than what it is,
is not only not knowledge, but it is false opinion widely different from
the truth of knowledge. Consequently, if anything is about to be, and
yet its occurrence is not certain and necessary, how can anyone foreknow
that it will occur? For just as knowledge itself is free from all
admixture of falsity, so any conception drawn from knowledge cannot be
other than as it is conceived. For this, indeed, is the cause why
knowledge is free from falsehood, because of necessity each thing must
correspond exactly with the knowledge which grasps its nature. In what
way, then, are we to suppose that God foreknows these uncertainties as
about to come to pass? For if He thinks of events which possibly may not
happen at all as inevitably destined to come to pass, He is deceived;
and this it is not only impious to believe, but even so much as to
express in words. If, on the other hand, He sees them in the future as
they are in such a sense as to know that they may equally come to pass
or not, what sort of foreknowledge is this which comprehends nothing
certain nor fixed? What better is this than the absurd vaticination of
Teiresias?

      '"Whate'er I say
    Shall either come to pass--or not."

In that case, too, in what would Divine providence surpass human opinion
if it holds for uncertain things the occurrence of which is uncertain,
even as men do? But if at that perfectly sure Fountain-head of all
things no shadow of uncertainty can possibly be found, then the
occurrence of those things which He has surely foreknown as coming is
certain. Wherefore there can be no freedom in human actions and designs;
but the Divine mind, which foresees all things without possibility of
mistake, ties and binds them down to one only issue. But this admission
once made, what an upset of human affairs manifestly ensues! Vainly are
rewards and punishments proposed for the good and bad, since no free and
voluntary motion of the will has deserved either one or the other; nay,
the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the righteous, which is
now esteemed the perfection of justice, will seem the most flagrant
injustice, since men are determined either way not by their own proper
volition, but by the necessity of what must surely be. And therefore
neither virtue nor vice is anything, but rather good and ill desert are
confounded together without distinction. Moreover, seeing that the whole
course of events is deduced from providence, and nothing is left free to
human design, it comes to pass that our vices also are referred to the
Author of all good--a thought than which none more abominable can
possibly be conceived. Again, no ground is left for hope or prayer,
since how can we hope for blessings, or pray for mercy, when every
object of desire depends upon the links of an unalterable chain of
causation? Gone, then, is the one means of intercourse between God and
man--the communion of hope and prayer--if it be true that we ever earn
the inestimable recompense of the Divine favour at the price of a due
humility; for this is the one way whereby men seem able to hold
communion with God, and are joined to that unapproachable light by the
very act of supplication, even before they obtain their petitions. Then,
since these things can scarcely be believed to have any efficacy, if the
necessity of future events be admitted, what means will there be whereby
we may be brought near and cleave to Him who is the supreme Head of all?
Wherefore it needs must be that the human race, even as thou didst
erstwhile declare in song, parted and dissevered from its Source, should
fall to ruin.'

FOOTNOTES:

[P] _I.e._, the necessity of the truth of the statement from the fact.

SONG III. TRUTH'S PARADOXES.

    Why does a strange discordance break
      The ordered scheme's fair harmony?
    Hath God decreed 'twixt truth and truth
      There may such lasting warfare be,
    That truths, each severally plain,
    We strive to reconcile in vain?

    Or is the discord not in truth,
      Since truth is self consistent ever?
    But, close in fleshly wrappings held,
      The blinded mind of man can never
    Discern--so faint her taper shines--
    The subtle chain that all combines?

    Ah! then why burns man's restless mind
      Truth's hidden portals to unclose?
    Knows he already what he seeks?
      Why toil to seek it, if he knows?
    Yet, haply if he knoweth not,
    Why blindly seek he knows not what?[Q]

    Who for a good he knows not sighs?
      Who can an unknown end pursue?
    How find? How e'en when haply found
      Hail that strange form he never knew?
    Or is it that man's inmost soul
    Once knew each part and knew the whole?

    Now, though by fleshly vapours dimmed,
      Not all forgot her visions past;
    For while the several parts are lost,
      To the one whole she cleaveth fast;
    Whence he who yearns the truth to find
    Is neither sound of sight nor blind.

    For neither does he know in full,
      Nor is he reft of knowledge quite;
    But, holding still to what is left,
      He gropes in the uncertain light,
    And by the part that still survives
    To win back all he bravely strives.

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] Compare Plato, 'Meno,' 80; Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 39, 40.

IV.

Then said she: 'This debate about providence is an old one, and is
vigorously discussed by Cicero in his "Divination"; thou also hast long
and earnestly pondered the problem, yet no one has had diligence and
perseverance enough to find a solution. And the reason of this obscurity
is that the movement of human reasoning cannot cope with the simplicity
of the Divine foreknowledge; for if a conception of its nature could in
any wise be framed, no shadow of uncertainty would remain. With a view
of making this at last clear and plain, I will begin by considering the
arguments by which thou art swayed. First, I inquire into the reasons
why thou art dissatisfied with the solution proposed, which is to the
effect that, seeing the fact of foreknowledge is not thought the cause
of the necessity of future events, foreknowledge is not to be deemed any
hindrance to the freedom of the will. Now, surely the sole ground on
which thou arguest the necessity of the future is that things which are
foreknown cannot fail to come to pass. But if, as thou wert ready to
acknowledge just now, the fact of foreknowledge imposes no necessity on
things future, what reason is there for supposing the results of
voluntary action constrained to a fixed issue? Suppose, for the sake of
argument, and to see what follows, we assume that there is no
foreknowledge. Are willed actions, then, tied down to any necessity in
_this_ case?'

'Certainly not.'

'Let us assume foreknowledge again, but without its involving any actual
necessity; the freedom of the will, I imagine, will remain in complete
integrity. But thou wilt say that, even although the foreknowledge is
not the necessity of the future event's occurrence, yet it is a sign
that it will necessarily happen. Granted; but in this case it is plain
that, even if there had been no foreknowledge, the issues would have
been inevitably certain. For a sign only indicates something which is,
does not bring to pass that of which it is the sign. We require to show
beforehand that all things, without exception, happen of necessity in
order that a preconception may be a sign of this necessity. Otherwise,
if there is no such universal necessity, neither can any preconception
be a sign of a necessity which exists not. Manifestly, too, a proof
established on firm grounds of reason must be drawn not from signs and
loose general arguments, but from suitable and necessary causes. But how
can it be that things foreseen should ever fail to come to pass? Why,
this is to suppose us to believe that the events which providence
foresees to be coming were not about to happen, instead of our supposing
that, although they should come to pass, yet there was no necessity
involved in their own nature compelling their occurrence. Take an
illustration that will help to convey my meaning. There are many things
which we see taking place before our eyes--the movements of charioteers,
for instance, in guiding and turning their cars, and so on. Now, is any
one of these movements compelled by any necessity?'

'No; certainly not. There would be no efficacy in skill if all motions
took place perforce.'

'Then, things which in taking place are free from any necessity as to
their being in the present must also, before they take place, be about
to happen without necessity. Wherefore there are things which will come
to pass, the occurrence of which is perfectly free from necessity. At
all events, I imagine that no one will deny that things now taking place
were about to come to pass before they were actually happening. Such
things, however much foreknown, are in their occurrence _free_. For even
as knowledge of things present imports no necessity into things that are
taking place, so foreknowledge of the future imports none into things
that are about to come. But this, thou wilt say, is the very point in
dispute--whether any foreknowing is possible of things whose occurrence
is not necessary. For here there seems to thee a contradiction, and, if
they are foreseen, their necessity follows; whereas if there is no
necessity, they can by no means be foreknown; and thou thinkest that
nothing can be grasped as known unless it is certain, but if things
whose occurrence is uncertain are foreknown as certain, this is the very
mist of opinion, not the truth of knowledge. For to think of things
otherwise than as they are, thou believest to be incompatible with the
soundness of knowledge.

'Now, the cause of the mistake is this--that men think that all
knowledge is cognized purely by the nature and efficacy of the thing
known. Whereas the case is the very reverse: all that is known is
grasped not conformably to its own efficacy, but rather conformably to
the faculty of the knower. An example will make this clear: the
roundness of a body is recognised in one way by sight, in another by
touch. Sight looks upon it from a distance as a whole by a simultaneous
reflection of rays; touch grasps the roundness piecemeal, by contact and
attachment to the surface, and by actual movement round the periphery
itself. Man himself, likewise, is viewed in one way by Sense, in another
by Imagination, in another way, again, by Thought, in another by pure
Intelligence. Sense judges figure clothed in material substance,
Imagination figure alone without matter. Thought transcends this again,
and by its contemplation of universals considers the type itself which
is contained in the individual. The eye of Intelligence is yet more
exalted; for overpassing the sphere of the universal, it will behold
absolute form itself by the pure force of the mind's vision. Wherein the
main point to be considered is this: the higher faculty of comprehension
embraces the lower, while the lower cannot rise to the higher. For Sense
has no efficacy beyond matter, nor can Imagination behold universal
ideas, nor Thought embrace pure form; but Intelligence, looking down, as
it were, from its higher standpoint in its intuition of form,
discriminates also the several elements which underlie it; but it
comprehends them in the same way as it comprehends that form itself,
which could be cognized by no other than itself. For it cognizes the
universal of Thought, the figure of Imagination, and the matter of
Sense, without employing Thought, Imagination, or Sense, but surveying
all things, so to speak, under the aspect of pure form by a single flash
of intuition. Thought also, in considering the universal, embraces
images and sense-impressions without resorting to Imagination or Sense.
For it is Thought which has thus defined the universal from its
conceptual point of view: "Man is a two-legged animal endowed with
reason." This is indeed a universal notion, yet no one is ignorant that
the _thing_ is imaginable and presentable to Sense, because Thought
considers it not by Imagination or Sense, but by means of rational
conception. Imagination, too, though its faculty of viewing and forming
representations is founded upon the senses, nevertheless surveys
sense-impressions without calling in Sense, not in the way of
Sense-perception, but of Imagination. See'st thou, then, how all things
in cognizing use rather their own faculty than the faculty of the things
which they cognize? Nor is this strange; for since every judgment is the
act of the judge, it is necessary that each should accomplish its task
by its own, not by another's power.'

SONG IV. A PSYCHOLOGICAL FALLACY.

[R]

    From the Porch's murky depths
      Comes a doctrine sage,
    That doth liken living mind
      To a written page;
    Since all knowledge comes through
      Sense,
    Graven by Experience.

    'As,' say they, 'the pen its marks
      Curiously doth trace
    On the smooth unsullied white
      Of the paper's face,
    So do outer things impress
    Images on consciousness.'

    But if verily the mind
      Thus all passive lies;
    If no living power within
      Its own force supplies;
    If it but reflect again,
    Like a glass, things false and vain--

    Whence the wondrous faculty
      That perceives and knows,
    That in one fair ordered scheme
      Doth the world dispose;
    Grasps each whole that Sense presents,
    Or breaks into elements?

    So divides and recombines,
      And in changeful wise
    Now to low descends, and now
      To the height doth rise;
    Last in inward swift review
    Strictly sifts the false and true?

    Of these ample potencies
      Fitter cause, I ween,
    Were Mind's self than marks impressed
      By the outer scene.
    Yet the body through the sense
    Stirs the soul's intelligence.

    When light flashes on the eye,
      Or sound strikes the ear,
    Mind aroused to due response
      Makes the message clear;
    And the dumb external signs
    With the hidden forms combines.

FOOTNOTES:

[R] A criticism of the doctrine of the mind as a blank sheet of paper on
which experience writes, as held by the Stoics in anticipation of Locke.
See Zeller, 'Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics,' Reichel's translation,
p. 76.

V.

'Now, although in the case of bodies endowed with sentiency the
qualities of external objects affect the sense-organs, and the activity
of mind is preceded by a bodily affection which calls forth the mind's
action upon itself, and stimulates the forms till that moment lying
inactive within, yet, I say, if in these bodies endowed with sentiency
the mind is not inscribed by mere passive affection, but of its own
efficacy discriminates the impressions furnished to the body, how much
more do intelligences free from all bodily affections employ in their
discrimination their own mental activities instead of conforming to
external objects? So on these principles various modes of cognition
belong to distinct and different substances. For to creatures void of
motive power--shell-fish and other such creatures which cling to rocks
and grow there--belongs Sense alone, void of all other modes of gaining
knowledge; to beasts endowed with movement, in whom some capacity of
seeking and shunning seems to have arisen, Imagination also. Thought
pertains only to the human race, as Intelligence to Divinity alone;
hence it follows that that form of knowledge exceeds the rest which of
its own nature cognizes not only its proper object, but the objects of
the other forms of knowledge also. But what if Sense and Imagination
were to gainsay Thought, and declare that universal which Thought deems
itself to behold to be nothing? For the object of Sense and Imagination
cannot be universal; so that either the judgment of Reason is true and
there is no sense-object, or, since they know full well that many
objects are presented to Sense and Imagination, the conception of
Reason, which looks on that which is perceived by Sense and particular
as if it were a something "universal," is empty of content. Suppose,
further, that Reason maintains in reply that it does indeed contemplate
the object of both Sense and Imagination under the form of
universality, while Sense and Imagination cannot aspire to the
knowledge of the universal, since their cognizance cannot go beyond
bodily figures, and that in the cognition of reality we ought rather to
trust the stronger and more perfect faculty of judgment. In a dispute of
this sort, should not we, in whom is planted the faculty of reasoning as
well as of imagining and perceiving, espouse the cause of Reason?

'In like manner is it that human reason thinks that Divine Intelligence
cannot see the future except after the fashion in which its own
knowledge is obtained. For thy contention is, if events do not appear to
involve certain and necessary issues, they cannot be foreseen as
certainly about to come to pass. There is, then, no foreknowledge of
such events; or, if we can ever bring ourselves to believe that there
is, there can be nothing which does not happen of necessity. If,
however, we could have some part in the judgment of the Divine mind,
even as we participate in Reason, we should think it perfectly just that
human Reason should submit itself to the Divine mind, no less than we
judged that Imagination and Sense ought to yield to Reason. Wherefore
let us soar, if we can, to the heights of that Supreme Intelligence; for
there Reason will see what in itself it cannot look upon; and that is in
what way things whose occurrence is not certain may yet be seen in a
sure and definite foreknowledge; and that this foreknowledge is not
conjecture, but rather knowledge in its supreme simplicity, free of all
limits and restrictions.'

SONG V. THE UPWARD LOOK.

    In what divers shapes and fashions do the creatures great and small
    Over wide earth's teeming surface skim, or scud, or walk, or crawl!
    Some with elongated body sweep the ground, and, as they move,
    Trail perforce with writhing belly in the dust a sinuous groove;
    Some, on light wing upward soaring, swiftly do the winds divide,
    And through heaven's ample spaces in free motion smoothly glide;
    These earth's solid surface pressing, with firm paces onward rove,
    Ranging through the verdant meadows, crouching in the woodland grove.
    Great and wondrous is their variance! Yet in all the head low-bent
    Dulls the soul and blunts the senses, though their forms be different.
    Man alone, erect, aspiring, lifts his forehead to the skies,
    And in upright posture steadfast seems earth's baseness to despise.
    If with earth not all besotted, to this parable give ear,
    Thou whose gaze is fixed on heaven, who thy face on high dost rear:
    Lift thy soul, too, heavenward; haply lest it stain its heavenly worth,
    And thine eyes alone look upward, while thy mind cleaves to the earth!

VI.

'Since, then, as we lately proved, everything that is known is cognized
not in accordance with its own nature, but in accordance with the nature
of the faculty that comprehends it, let us now contemplate, as far as
lawful, the character of the Divine essence, that we may be able to
understand also the nature of its knowledge.

'God is eternal; in this judgment all rational beings agree. Let us,
then, consider what eternity is. For this word carries with it a
revelation alike of the Divine nature and of the Divine knowledge. Now,
eternity is the possession of endless life whole and perfect at a single
moment. What this is becomes more clear and manifest from a comparison
with things temporal. For whatever lives in time is a present proceeding
from the past to the future, and there is nothing set in time which can
embrace the whole space of its life together. To-morrow's state it
grasps not yet, while it has already lost yesterday's; nay, even in the
life of to-day ye live no longer than one brief transitory moment.
Whatever, therefore, is subject to the condition of time, although, as
Aristotle deemed of the world, it never have either beginning or end,
and its life be stretched to the whole extent of time's infinity, it yet
is not such as rightly to be thought eternal. For it does not include
and embrace the whole space of infinite life at once, but has no present
hold on things to come, not yet accomplished. Accordingly, that which
includes and possesses the whole fulness of unending life at once, from
which nothing future is absent, from which nothing past has escaped,
this is rightly called eternal; this must of necessity be ever present
to itself in full self-possession, and hold the infinity of movable time
in an abiding present. Wherefore they deem not rightly who imagine that
on Plato's principles the created world is made co-eternal with the
Creator, because they are told that he believed the world to have had
no beginning in time,[S] and to be destined never to come to an end. For
it is one thing for existence to be endlessly prolonged, which was what
Plato ascribed to the world, another for the whole of an endless life to
be embraced in the present, which is manifestly a property peculiar to
the Divine mind. Nor need God appear earlier in mere duration of time to
created things, but only prior in the unique simplicity of His nature.
For the infinite progression of things in time copies this immediate
existence in the present of the changeless life, and when it cannot
succeed in equalling it, declines from movelessness into motion, and
falls away from the simplicity of a perpetual present to the infinite
duration of the future and the past; and since it cannot possess the
whole fulness of its life together, for the very reason that in a manner
it never ceases to be, it seems, up to a certain point, to rival that
which it cannot complete and express by attaching itself indifferently
to any present moment of time, however swift and brief; and since this
bears some resemblance to that ever-abiding present, it bestows on
everything to which it is assigned the semblance of existence. But since
it cannot abide, it hurries along the infinite path of time, and the
result has been that it continues by ceaseless movement the life the
completeness of which it could not embrace while it stood still. So, if
we are minded to give things their right names, we shall follow Plato in
saying that God indeed is eternal, but the world everlasting.

'Since, then, every mode of judgment comprehends its objects conformably
to its own nature, and since God abides for ever in an eternal present,
His knowledge, also transcending all movement of time, dwells in the
simplicity of its own changeless present, and, embracing the whole
infinite sweep of the past and of the future, contemplates all that
falls within its simple cognition as if it were now taking place. And
therefore, if thou wilt carefully consider that immediate presentment
whereby it discriminates all things, thou wilt more rightly deem it not
foreknowledge as of something future, but knowledge of a moment that
never passes. For this cause the name chosen to describe it is not
prevision, but providence, because, since utterly removed in nature from
things mean and trivial, its outlook embraces all things as from some
lofty height. Why, then, dost thou insist that the things which are
surveyed by the Divine eye are involved in necessity, whereas clearly
men impose no necessity on things which they see? Does the act of vision
add any necessity to the things which thou seest before thy eyes?'

'Assuredly not.'

'And yet, if we may without unfitness compare God's present and man's,
just as ye see certain things in this your temporary present, so does He
see all things in His eternal present. Wherefore this Divine
anticipation changes not the natures and properties of things, and it
beholds things present before it, just as they will hereafter come to
pass in time. Nor does it confound things in its judgment, but in the
one mental view distinguishes alike what will come necessarily and what
without necessity. For even as ye, when at one and the same time ye see
a man walking on the earth and the sun rising in the sky, distinguish
between the two, though one glance embraces both, and judge the former
voluntary, the latter necessary action: so also the Divine vision in its
universal range of view does in no wise confuse the characters of the
things which are present to its regard, though future in respect of
time. Whence it follows that when it perceives that something will come
into existence, and yet is perfectly aware that this is unbound by any
necessity, its apprehension is not opinion, but rather knowledge based
on truth. And if to this thou sayest that what God sees to be about to
come to pass cannot fail to come to pass, and that what cannot fail to
come to pass happens of necessity, and wilt tie me down to this word
necessity, I will acknowledge that thou affirmest a most solid truth,
but one which scarcely anyone can approach to who has not made the
Divine his special study. For my answer would be that the same future
event is necessary from the standpoint of Divine knowledge, but when
considered in its own nature it seems absolutely free and unfettered.
So, then, there are two necessities--one simple, as that men are
necessarily mortal; the other conditioned, as that, if you know that
someone is walking, he must necessarily be walking. For that which is
known cannot indeed be otherwise than as it is known to be, and yet this
fact by no means carries with it that other simple necessity. For the
former necessity is not imposed by the thing's own proper nature, but by
the addition of a condition. No necessity compels one who is voluntarily
walking to go forward, although it is necessary for him to go forward at
the moment of walking. In the same way, then, if Providence sees
anything as present, that must necessarily be, though it is bound by no
necessity of nature. Now, God views as present those coming events which
happen of free will. These, accordingly, from the standpoint of the
Divine vision are made necessary conditionally on the Divine
cognizance; viewed, however, in themselves, they desist not from the
absolute freedom naturally theirs. Accordingly, without doubt, all
things will come to pass which God foreknows as about to happen, but of
these certain proceed of free will; and though these happen, yet by the
fact of their existence they do not lose their proper nature, in virtue
of which before they happened it was really possible that they might not
have come to pass.

'What difference, then, does the denial of necessity make, since,
through their being conditioned by Divine knowledge, they come to pass
as if they were in all respects under the compulsion of necessity? This
difference, surely, which we saw in the case of the instances I formerly
took, the sun's rising and the man's walking; which at the moment of
their occurrence could not but be taking place, and yet one of them
before it took place was necessarily obliged to be, while the other was
not so at all. So likewise the things which to God are present without
doubt exist, but some of them come from the necessity of things, others
from the power of the agent. Quite rightly, then, have we said that
these things are necessary if viewed from the standpoint of the Divine
knowledge; but if they are considered in themselves, they are free from
the bonds of necessity, even as everything which is accessible to sense,
regarded from the standpoint of Thought, is universal, but viewed in its
own nature particular. "But," thou wilt say, "if it is in my power to
change my purpose, I shall make void providence, since I shall perchance
change something which comes within its foreknowledge." My answer is:
Thou canst indeed turn aside thy purpose; but since the truth of
providence is ever at hand to see that thou canst, and whether thou
dost, and whither thou turnest thyself, thou canst not avoid the Divine
foreknowledge, even as thou canst not escape the sight of a present
spectator, although of thy free will thou turn thyself to various
actions. Wilt thou, then, say: "Shall the Divine knowledge be changed at
my discretion, so that, when I will this or that, providence changes its
knowledge correspondingly?"

'Surely not.'

'True, for the Divine vision anticipates all that is coming, and
transforms and reduces it to the form of its own present knowledge, and
varies not, as thou deemest, in its foreknowledge, alternating to this
or that, but in a single flash it forestalls and includes thy mutations
without altering. And this ever-present comprehension and survey of all
things God has received, not from the issue of future events, but from
the simplicity of His own nature. Hereby also is resolved the objection
which a little while ago gave thee offence--that our doings in the
future were spoken of as if supplying the cause of God's knowledge. For
this faculty of knowledge, embracing all things in its immediate
cognizance, has itself fixed the bounds of all things, yet itself owes
nothing to what comes after.

'And all this being so, the freedom of man's will stands unshaken, and
laws are not unrighteous, since their rewards and punishments are held
forth to wills unbound by any necessity. God, who foreknoweth all
things, still looks down from above, and the ever-present eternity of
His vision concurs with the future character of all our acts, and
dispenseth to the good rewards, to the bad punishments. Our hopes and
prayers also are not fixed on God in vain, and when they are rightly
directed cannot fail of effect. Therefore, withstand vice, practise
virtue, lift up your souls to right hopes, offer humble prayers to
Heaven. Great is the necessity of righteousness laid upon you if ye will
not hide it from yourselves, seeing that all your actions are done
before the eyes of a Judge who seeth all things.'

FOOTNOTES:

[S] Plato expressly states the opposite in the 'Timaeus' (28B), though
possibly there the account of the beginning of the world in time is to
be understood figuratively, not literally. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp.
448, 449 (3rd edit.).

</CHAPTER>

Now Boethius has decided that Philosophy's arguments must be true, but he still questions, "What are we to make of chance?" Chance, or random occurrence without any sequence of causes, cannot exist in the mind of God as Philosophy has described it. "If God imposes order on things," Boethius says to Philosophy, "then there is no opportunity for random events." Philosophy answers that any chance event that occurs had its own set of hidden causes, whether or not they are perceived by human beings. Whether or not these causes appear to have relation to each other, they are nevertheless governed by Providence. Boethius then asks how can there be free will in this close-knit chain of events. To this Philosophy asserts that there must indeed be free will, because no rational nature could exist without it. Judgment and the ability to choose are inherent in a rational nature. The more rational a person is, and the more they choose virtue and the pursuit of true happiness in God, the freer that person is. If a person is wicked or enslaved to vice, that person becomes progressively less and less free, and controlled by vice and error. Here Philosophy returns to the subject of the mind of God, and his one act of knowing everything that has occurred, past and present. Just because God knows what a person with free will is going to choose, doesn't mean that he directed it. God knows all things before they happen, but he doesn't interfere with the free will of human beings. Boethius protests, saying that these two things are oppositional. How can God know about something before it happens, but therefore not control or direct the free choices of human beings? Philosophy enters into another long explanation of the mind of God. God does not "know" the world in the same way that human beings do. God is outside of time, so he doesn't view the world in a progression of events. For God no future event is uncertain, no past event forgotten. God knows the world in one single act, which includes knowledge of all the choices of all human beings from the beginning of the world to the end. Therefore he doesn't influence these choices, but he knew of them as part of the whole foreknowledge of the world perceived in one single instance. This raises the problem of the efficacy of prayer, but Philosophy counsels that prayer is the one way of communicating with God. Even if the future is already ordained we still must strive to join ourselves with our Creator through prayer. We are temporal creatures, and we can only understand things in a temporal way. This doesn't mean we can't participate in eternity by striving to be one with God. Philosophy says that it is still important to strive for virtue, for God is always watching and judging. That the world has already happened for God is a mystery to us, but we are temporal and cannot hope to fully understand eternity.

This last book of The Consolation of Philosophy raises the most questions of any of the books of The Consolation of Philosophy.  The idea of foreknowledge and Providence have been debated for centuries.  This argument was even referred to in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.  There is no reason to believe that this debate will cease anytime soon. What is at issue is a central philosophical question of whether or not the world is predetermined or subject to chance.  Philosophy walks a middle ground here, saying that God knows all things since he perceives the world in one instance of knowing, but in that instance of knowing he didn't force the choices of all the people in the world.  He just knows how it happened, all at once. Since there is no logical way to support this argument, the idea of the single instant of knowing must be taken as given.  Boethius has set up the arguments in the previous books so that this is the only possible solution.  He gives credit to Aristotle for this idea, but the preceding arguments and proofs are all his own.  Providence is the ordering of all things by God, and he had a plan for his world, but he didn't necessarily influence the choices of the people in it.  Fate is simply the events that must occur because, for God, the whole world including all future people and events has already happened.  Philosophy is right to call it a mystery. Free will is very important in this Book because it is a necessary component of Catholic faith.  If there were no free will there would be no accountability for sin on earth, and sin is held accountable and confession, and possibly punishment, are necessary for redemption.  Boethius had to reconcile the idea of free will to the idea of Providence in order to remain orthodox. The passages about the wicked being less free than the virtuous are also a part of the free will argument.  If the wicked have free will, then can their choices could be considered as valid as the choices the virtuous make?  Not so, says Philosophy, for their choices come to be controlled by their vices, not by their sound judgment.  The more evil a human being becomes, the less free and less human he or she becomes. The subject of prayer comes up at the end of this book.  If God knows all things, then what is the use of praying to him?  Philosophy admonishes Boethius that he should not cut off the one communication conduit he has with God.  Prayer is a path to virtue, and the book ends with Philosophy advising Boethius to cultivate virtue as much as possible since God sees and is the judge of all things. The difficulties with this ordering of the world are plain to a modern reader.  For example, even if God does know everything that happens on earth in one instant, he, in his omniscience, can still intervene and could guide the evil towards good if he chose.  This would destroy free will, but would it also take away from the idea that God is also all good?  If he could prevent someone from turning down the path of evil, why doesn't he? Free will must be retained, in order to make human beings accountable for their actions and not merely puppets of God.  Also, the lack of substance of evil  means that God isn't allowing evil to happen, because evil doesn't really exist. Much depends on faith in these five Books of Boethius, but many logical arguments are contained in it, too.  Boethius seems to strain for orthodoxy at times, but that doesn't make the philosophy any less brilliant, or the "consolation" any less real.  Again, a modern reader must never forget the context of Boethius' work: he is in a desperate position, striving for a dollop of happiness amidst misery.  If his work contains logical fallacies and shortcomings, so be it - the object is consolation, and that object, it seems, is achieved.


<CHAPTER>
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.

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.

'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.

</CHAPTER>
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.

Commentary on Part I In the middle of his sorrow at being imprisoned, while he is writing sad poetry, a mysterious and supernatural woman  appears to the author. She chases away the Muses, the Greek goddesses of poetry, accusing them of making him a slave to his unhappiness through beautiful song. Boethius has been raised on philosophy and deserves better than this. She mentions the Greek philosophers Plato  and Zeno . Zeno is credited for inventing the form of philosophical argument that Boethius employs in this work, and Plato, the founder of western philosophy and science, used the philosophical dialogue between two speakers, as Boethius does here, as a way to illuminate his teachings. The character of Philosophy asserts that philosophical knowledge is much higher than poetry, which is merely a sort of emotional self-indulgence. Poetry did not have as high a reputation in the ancient world as it does today. Plato felt it was a distorted form of knowledge, while philosophy aims at pure truth. Boethius describes the clothes of Philosophy as having a dusty appearance, showing the neglect given to this highest pursuit. As is traditional in ancient, medieval, and Renaissance works, Philosophy is a personified abstraction, a divine woman or goddess, pitted against the Muses and Fortune, who are pictured as devious women, out to distract men from truth. The whole work is a dialogue between Boethius and Philosophy. She attempts to console him for his impending death and reminds him of his superior training in philosophy. A philosopher should never fear death or misfortune. As Boethius had mentioned in his beginning poem, he had been favored by Fortune in his early life, but now Fortune is no longer his friend, "For falling shows a man stood insecure" . This will become a major point of the book. Life is full of ups and downs. Where can security be found? Summary of Part II       Philosophy recites her own poem to Boethius, explaining why he is downcast. His mind sinks at "the storms of life" and "forgets its inward light/ And turns in trust to the dark without" . Yet Boethius was the same man who "once was free," who could contemplate the planets and who "sought out the source/ of storms" . The one who investigated Nature's deepest secrets is now a prisoner of the dark. She tells him it is time for healing, for he was the man fed on the milk of philosophy. The author does not respond to her because he is depressed, and so she lays her hand on his breast and tells him his situation is not serious. He only has "amnesia" . She will wipe the dust from his eyes. Commentary on Part II       Philosophy does not seem to think poetry is bad when she speaks to Boethius of truth, and knowing he is fond of meter and music, she persuades him half through poetry and half through logic that he is miserable because he has forgotten who he is and what he once knew. The Platonic notion of remembering the truth that the soul has always known from eternity  will be delved into more deeply later on. She tries to get his attention here by diagnosing his problem. Summary of Part III       Boethius responds with a verse of hope: "The night was put to flight, the darkness fled,/ And to my eyes their former strength returned" . Suddenly he recognizes the divine woman as Philosophy and asks her why she has come. Is it to share "false accusation" with him? . She replies she has come to share his burden since he is hated because of her. It is not the first time "wisdom has been threatened with danger by the forces of evil" . She mentions the case of Socrates who was unjustly put to death for telling the truth. His death was a victory for philosophy, and after he died, though the Epicureans and Stoics tried to carry on the legacy, the mantle of philosophy was torn to pieces, each trying to hold on to a separate piece. She mentions the fate of other philosophers. Anaxagoras was banished from Athens; Socrates was put to death; Zeno was tortured; Romans like Canius, Seneca, and Soranus suffered because they were contemptuous of human corruption. The majority of men are carried along by ignorance into pleasing those who are wicked. The wise withdraw to a citadel of philosophy to watch the common men pursue "useless booty" . Commentary on Part III       Now Boethius begins to take part in the dialogue with Philosophy. She reminds him he is in the company of all the illustrious philosophers who have been attacked by the mobs of ignorant men. He should feel glad he is not one of the common mob swept to doom, distracted by wrong ends. Philosophy is a refuge from whose heights the wise man can look down on immorality. Boethius could not know as he wrote this book on his deathbed that he too would join the famous group of virtuous philosopher martyrs, celebrated by history, especially in the medieval age to follow, for upholding the truth. Socrates , the teacher of Plato, is of course the most famous example of the philosopher who is not tolerated by the status quo. He was called the "gadfly" of the state in that he fostered critical discussion of the Athenian government among the citizens. The government sentenced him to death for corrupting youth, and he was forced to drink poison hemlock. His noble death for philosophic principles is recorded in Plato's Crito and Phaedo. Philosophy implies that Socrates was one of her best champions, and after his death, other philosophers could not hold his place. Text: Boethius. The Consolation of Philosophy. Translated with an Introduction by Victor Watts. Penguin Books, 1969;1999. Book I of Part I Boethius alternates poetry and prose to tell the first-person story of his grief at being in prison awaiting execution. It begins with his tearful "elegiac verse" in which he laments that once he wrote "songs with joyful zeal" but now must write in "weeping mode." He had a happy youth, but old age came suddenly, making his hair turn white. He is now a "worn out bone-bag hung with flesh" and would welcome Death . Fortune once favored him, but she is false, since now he has been thrown down into disgrace. As the poet ends this song of grief, he notices a woman standing over him, "of awe-inspiring appearance" , a supernatural being holding books in one hand and a scepter in the other. She becomes angry when she sees the Muses at the author's bedside dictating sad poetry to him. She calls the Muses "hysterical sluts" who have poison for his sorrow, not medicine. Instead of curing men, the Muses make men addicted to sorrowful songs. She does not want them to spoil Boethius who has been raised on the philosophies of Plato and Zeno. The Muses are shamed by the authority of this woman, who sits on Boethius's bed and begins to recite her own philosophical verse to him about why he is confused by his misfortune. Commentary on Part I Commentary on Part I In the middle of his sorrow at being imprisoned, while he is writing sad poetry, a mysterious and supernatural woman appears to the author. She chases away the Muses, the Greek goddesses of poetry, accusing them of making him a slave to his unhappiness through beautiful song. Boethius has been raised on philosophy and deserves better than this. She mentions the Greek philosophers Plato and Zeno . Zeno is credited for inventing the form of philosophical argument that Boethius employs in this work, and Plato, the founder of western philosophy and science, used the philosophical dialogue between two speakers, as Boethius does here, as a way to illuminate his teachings. The character of Philosophy asserts that philosophical knowledge is much higher than poetry, which is merely a sort of emotional self-indulgence. Poetry did not have as high a reputation in the ancient world as it does today. Plato felt it was a distorted form of knowledge, while philosophy aims at pure truth. Boethius describes the clothes of Philosophy as having a dusty appearance, showing the neglect given to this highest pursuit. As is traditional in ancient, medieval, and Renaissance works, Philosophy is a personified abstraction, a divine woman or goddess, pitted against the Muses and Fortune, who are pictured as devious women, out to distract men from truth. The whole work is a dialogue between Boethius and Philosophy. She attempts to console him for his impending death and reminds him of his superior training in philosophy. A philosopher should never fear death or misfortune. As Boethius had mentioned in his beginning poem, he had been favored by Fortune in his early life, but now Fortune is no longer his friend, "For falling shows a man stood insecure" . This will become a major point of the book. Life is full of ups and downs. Where can security be found? of Part II Philosophy recites her own poem to Boethius, explaining why he is downcast. His mind sinks at "the storms of life" and "forgets its inward light/ And turns in trust to the dark without" . Yet Boethius was the same man who "once was free," who could contemplate the planets and who "sought out the source/ of storms" . The one who investigated Nature's deepest secrets is now a prisoner of the dark. She tells him it is time for healing, for he was the man fed on the milk of philosophy. The author does not respond to her because he is depressed, and so she lays her hand on his breast and tells him his situation is not serious. He only has "amnesia" . She will wipe the dust from his eyes. Commentary on Part II Commentary on Part II Philosophy does not seem to think poetry is bad when she speaks to Boethius of truth, and knowing he is fond of meter and music, she persuades him half through poetry and half through logic that he is miserable because he has forgotten who he is and what he once knew. The Platonic notion of remembering the truth that the soul has always known from eternity will be delved into more deeply later on. She tries to get his attention here by diagnosing his problem. of Part III Boethius responds with a verse of hope: "The night was put to flight, the darkness fled,/ And to my eyes their former strength returned" . Suddenly he recognizes the divine woman as Philosophy and asks her why she has come. Is it to share "false accusation" with him? . She replies she has come to share his burden since he is hated because of her. It is not the first time "wisdom has been threatened with danger by the forces of evil" . She mentions the case of Socrates who was unjustly put to death for telling the truth. His death was a victory for philosophy, and after he died, though the Epicureans and Stoics tried to carry on the legacy, the mantle of philosophy was torn to pieces, each trying to hold on to a separate piece. She mentions the fate of other philosophers. Anaxagoras was banished from Athens; Socrates was put to death; Zeno was tortured; Romans like Canius, Seneca, and Soranus suffered because they were contemptuous of human corruption. The majority of men are carried along by ignorance into pleasing those who are wicked. The wise withdraw to a citadel of philosophy to watch the common men pursue "useless booty" . Commentary on Part III Commentary on Part III Now Boethius begins to take part in the dialogue with Philosophy. She reminds him he is in the company of all the illustrious philosophers who have been attacked by the mobs of ignorant men. He should feel glad he is not one of the common mob swept to doom, distracted by wrong ends. Philosophy is a refuge from whose heights the wise man can look down on immorality. Boethius could not know as he wrote this book on his deathbed that he too would join the famous group of virtuous philosopher martyrs, celebrated by history, especially in the medieval age to follow, for upholding the truth. Socrates , the teacher of Plato, is of course the most famous example of the philosopher who is not tolerated by the status quo. He was called the "gadfly" of the state in that he fostered critical discussion of the Athenian government among the citizens. The government sentenced him to death for corrupting youth, and he was forced to drink poison hemlock. His noble death for philosophic principles is recorded in Plato's Crito and Phaedo. Philosophy implies that Socrates was one of her best champions, and after his death, other philosophers could not hold his place. Novel Author Boethius Novel Author Boethius