The Great Ideas Today 1982 0852293984

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God

Astronomy

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Sin

Necessity and Contingency

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“The Hand of God,” 1954, a sculpture by Carl Milles; in the Millesg^rden, in Lidingo, a suburb of Stockholm. Man confronting climate with his technology.

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Encydopcedia Britannica, Inc. CHICAGO AUCKLAND‘GENEVA‘LONDON ‘MANILA‘PARIS •ROME •SEOUL •SYDNEY •TOKYO •TORONTO

© 1982 by Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc. Copyright under International Copyright Union. All rights reserved under Pan American and Universal Copyright Conventions by Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. “Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes” was delivered as the 1982 Harvey Cushing Oration to the American Association of Neurological Surgeons at their Annual Meeting in Honolulu, April 26, 1982. Published by the Journal of Neurosurgery. Reprinted by permission of the Journal. ‘The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams from Collected Earlier Poems. Copyright 1938 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. “Synchophantasy in Economics” by Louis O. Kelso and Patricia Hetter Kelso. Copyright 1982 by Louis O. Kelso and Patricia Hetter Kelso. Reprinted by permission of the authors. “Man a Machine,” from Man a Machine by Julien de La Mettrie, translated from the French by Miss Gertrude Bussey, revised by Professor M. W. Calkins, 1927. Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Open Court Publishing Company. The President of the United States ’ by Woodrow Wilson originally appeared in Constitutional Government of the United States, published in 1908 by Columbia University Press. Printed in the U.S.A. Library of Congress Number: 61-65561 International Standard Book Number: 0-85229-398-4 International Standard Serial Number: 0072-7288

EDITOR

Mortimer J. Adler

EXECUTIVE EDITOR

John Van Doren Consulting Editor Editorial Assistant

Otto Bird Anne Wagner

ART DIRECTOR Cynthia Peterson Picture Editor Layout Artist Art Staff

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COPY DIRECTOR J. Thomas Beatty Copy Staff

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System Manager

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EDITORIAL ADMINISTRATION Editor-in-Chief Philip W. Goetz Executive Editor Margaret Sutton Director of Budgets and Control Verne Pore

ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA, INC. Chairman of the Board President Vice-President/Editorial

Robert P. Gwinn Charles E. Swanson Charles Van Doren

A NOTE ON REFERENOE STYLE

In the following pages, passages in Great Books of the Western World are referred to by the initials ‘GBWW,’ followed by volume, page number, and page section. Thus, ‘GBWW, Vol. 39, p. 210b’ refers to page 210 in Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, which is Volume 39 in Great Books of the Western World. The small letter ‘b’ indicates the page section. In books printed in single column, ‘a’ and ‘b’ refer to the upper and lower halves of the page. In books printed in double column, ‘a’ and ‘b’ refer to the upper and lower halves of the left column, c and ‘d’ to the upper and lower halves of the right column. For example, ‘Vol. 53, p. 210b’ refers to the lower half of page 210, since Volume 53, James’s Principles of Psychology, is printed in single column. On the other hand, ‘Vol. 7, p. 210b’ re¬ fers to the lower left quarter of the page since Volume 7, Plato’s Dialogues, is printed in double column. Gateway to the Great Books is referred to by the initials ‘GGB,‘ fol¬ lowed by volume and page number. Thus, ‘GGB, Vol. 10, pp. 3957 refers to pages 39 through 57 of Volume 10 of Gateway to the Great Books, which is James’s essay, “The Will to Believe.’’ The Great Ideas Today is referred to by the initials ‘GIT,’ followed by the year and page number. Thus ‘GIT 1968, p. 210’ refers to page 210 of the 1968 edition of The Great Ideas Today.

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

Preface

vi

Current Topics Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes Mortimer J. Adler

2

Current Developments in the Arts and Sciences Electing the U.S. President Douglass Cater Climate: Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow F. Kenneth Hare Recent Contributions to Our Knowledge of the Bible Raymond E. Brown, S.S. Theories of Literature in the Twentieth Century Harvey Goldstein

158

The Reconsideration of a Great Book Rethinking the Pensees of Pascal Otto Bird

212

16 51 104

Reviews of Recent Books Philosophy in Our Time Mortimer J. Adier Machine Thinking and Thinking Machines Charles Van Doren Synchophantasy in Economics: A Review of George Gilder’s Wealth and Poverty Louis O. Kelso and Patricia Hotter Keiso

280

Note to the Reader

293

Additions to the Great Books Library The Consolation of Philosophy Boethius Man a Machine Julien de La Mettrie “The Function of Criticism at the Present Time’’ Matthew Arnold “The Real Thing’’ Henry James “The President of the United States’’ Woodrow Wilson

238 256

296 380 412 432 450

Preface

I

n keeping with our plan to stay abreast of current developments in the arts and sciences—developments in physics, biology, the humanities, and social studies, of which we have given regular accounts in the past and will continue to report on in the future—we devote a portion of this year’s Great Ideas Today to new disciplines, or aspects of old ones, which we have not previously taken up. One of these, in the held of the social sciences, is the American elector¬ al process, specihcally the way in which every four years there is chosen a president of the United States. This is a matter of concern at present owing to the decline of political parties, the power of television, and the growth of single-issue politics. That as a result of these and other new factors the best candidates for the office are not selected, or if they are, are subjected to inhuman rigors of campaigning, is widely accepted, but it is not so clear what if anything can be done to improve the situation. The possibilities, and the fundamental constitutional questions they involve, are considered here in an article by Douglass Cater, of the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, who has experience in presidential politics. To a quite different area belongs tbe science of climatology, which is discussed following by F. Kenneth Hare of the University of Toronto. A relatively new science, or at least a fresh amalgam of old ones, climatolo¬ gy comprehends much of what nowadays we have come to regard as the life-support system of the earth—the conditions, as we may say, of our ex¬ istence, including airs, waters, winds, temperature—in their complex, shifting patterns. Such a science would hardly have been possible before the age of the computer, so large are the quantities of data that are re¬ quired to make even modest predictions as to long-term trends, and even so the predictions are subject to dispute, as Professor Hare acknowl¬ edges. But an immense amount is known now as compared with any time in the past. Next will be found a report on recent biblical scholarship, by Raymond Brown of Union Theological Seminary, who reports on textual discover¬ ies and archaeological finds that have increased our understanding of the Bible as an historical document. Work in this field—involving the exami¬ nation of stones and tablets, archaeological digs in Palestine, and so forth—has been going on for a long time, of course, and while there are perhaps no altogether startling discoveries since those of the Dead Sea vi

Scrolls some years back, the sum of what has turned up and its implication for biblical scholars is in many details highly suggestive, as Father Brown indicates. Finally, among our long articles this year will be found an account of the theories of literature and literary criticism that have been proposed, both in this country and in Europe over the past sixty years. Harvey Gold¬ stein, who reports on this abstruse subject, is himself a scholar of literary theory in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which had its own complexities. Its contemporary equivalent will be found to reflect twenti¬ eth-century philosophical thought, of which it is an extension, at many points. In another part of the volume we repeat the feature of book reviews introduced last year in the belief that we should give some account of books that readers of The Great Ideas Today may find especially worthwhile. Reviewed this year by Mortimer Adler are Robert Nozick’s Philosophical Explanations, a work that has caused much comment elsewhere, and After Virtue, by Alasdair MacIntyre. Also, reviewed by Charles Van Doren, are three works on computer theory, or, more exactly, what has come to be called Artificial Intelligence: The Mind’s I, edited by Douglas Hofstadter and Daniel Dennett; Brainstorms, which is by Dennett alone; and Mind De¬ sign, edited by John Haugeland. Last but not least appears a review by Louis O. Kelso and Patricia Hetter Kelso of George Gilder’s Wealth and Poverty, which has been accepted as a manifesto of the conservative eco¬ nomics of our day in this country and elsewhere. In connection with Mr. Van Doren’s report here on what may or may not become thinking machines, we publish in addition the text of an ad¬ dress given by Mr. Adler to the American Association of Neurological Surgeons this year, at the Association’s invitation, on the mind and the brain in angels, humans, and brutes—this by way of comment on what is obviously a current topic, the whole question of whether it is possible or not to construct machines that will match or even surpass human thought processes. We have included as well a discussion by Otto Bird, our consulting editor, of the Pensees of Pascal, which will serve to bring our readers up to date on recent editorial researches into that work. These researches demonstrate that while the bulk of what we know as the Pensees are, and must remain, in random sequence, all of them were intended by Pascal to have a certain order, and this can now be reconstructed for approximately one-third of them, including the famous no. 233 (in the usual number¬ ing), called The Wager. As in other years, many of the “Additions to the Great Books Library’’ in the volume are included for their relevance to the original articles and essays. Thus, J. O. de La Mettrie’s Man a Machine, an eighteenth-century forerunner of works in behavioral psychology, is prophetic of the vision of mechanical intelligence discussed by Charles Van Doren. So, too, vii

Matthew Arnold’s essay, “The Function of Criticism at the Present Time,” and the story by Henry James called “The Real Thing,” will be recognized as having reference to Professor Goldstein’s discussion of lit¬ erary theory. And Woodrow Wilson’s description of the office of presi¬ dent of the United States, which is taken from his book. Constitutional Gov¬ ernment, first published in 1908 when Wilson himself was president of Princeton University, is of interest in connection with Mr. Cater’s piece on the electoral process that, in fact, quotes from it. The longest “Addition” here, Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, is offered merely for its own sake, however, and in recognition of its impor¬ tance for ancient philosophy, of which during the Middle Ages it consti¬ tuted a kind of digest before the works of Plato, Aristotle, and others had appeared again during the Renaissance, and of which, derivative though it may be, it is a moving personal account. Boethius, who died in a.d. 524, and who saw the last of the thousand-year period of classical culture that began with the rise of Athens and ended with the fall of Rome—a period far longer and more intellectually connected than anything Western cul¬ ture has achieved since—spent much of his life trying to preserve, through translations and commentaries, the learning of those centuries, with the idea of making this available to generations yet unborn. It was a task that must have seemed immense in that age of destruction and decline; indeed, it must sometimes have appeared to Boethius, as it did to Saint Augustine, that his pen could hardly move fast enough, given that the barbarian was at the gate. But fortunately they both had time to save much, if by no means all, of what had come down to them. This issue of The Great Ideas Today also includes, in response to requests from some of our readers, a Note to the Reader in which connections are suggested, chiefly by means of the Syntopicon to Great Books of the Western World, between the works in that set and contents of this volume—a service we have performed piecemeal, with one or more brief Notes, in past issues, but which is here attempted on a more comprehensive scale. The editors are indebted, as always, to the editorial copy department of Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., for seeing the volume through the press; also to the company’s art department, to which are owed the illustrations^ photographs, and diagrams that appear at various points; to the editorial typesetting staff, listed on another page; and to other departments whose services have been required.

viii

PART ONE

Current Topics

Minds and Brains; Angels, Humans, and Brutes Mortimer J. Adler

Editor’s Introduction As the review of recent books about artificial intelligence elsewhere in this volume will serve to indicate, that subject is very much with us at the moment, when we hear—not for the first time, it is true—that machines with the operational capacity of the human brain (or conceivably much more than that), and even perhaps with similar chemical constituents, are within the realm of possibility, will likely enough in time be made. The question, supposing this in fact is done, is whether the resulting mechanism, having presumably the powers of a human brain, would in ef¬ fect be one—whether the old dream of a thinking machine, the Faustian homunculus, can after all be realized. This is cousin to another question, of late not quite so insistently put as it was a few years ago, whether chimpanzees or dolphins can be taught some form of language, in which case it can be argued, as indeed it has been argued, that they are of the same order as ourselves, that the difference between their brains and ours, however large, is but a matter of degree along the same continuum. It was at any rate with these possibilities in mind that Mortimer J. Adler accepted the invitation of the American Association of Neurological Sur¬ geons to give the Harvey Cushing Memorial Oration at the Association’s annual meeting in Honolulu this year, in an effort to distinguish as clearly as possible the philosopher’s view of such matters from that of the physi¬ cian and the scientist. This lecture, which is reprinted here with minor changes, will recall, to those familiar with Mr. Adler’s writings, his earlier book. The Difference of Man and the Difference It Makes (1967), as well as the “Symposium on Language and Communication” in The Great Ideas Today 1975, to which he was a contributor.

Introduction

I

am honored by your invitation to deliver the Harvey Cushing Memori¬ al Address—or Oration, as it is referred to. An address I hope it will be; but an oration, I think not. More than honored, I am awed, coming as I do from the soft science of psychology and the even softer discipline known as philosophy, and standing before you who are leading representatives of a science that is hard down to its core. When first approached, I was hesitant to accept such an assignment. I do not know whether it was the eloquence expected of an orator that frightened me, or the eminence of Harvey Cushing that made me hesi¬ tant. What overcame my scruples on these two counts were the many memories that soon crowded into my mind—not only the recollection of my great admiration for Dr. Cushing, but also the memory of how far back in my life and how deep in my intellectual interest lay the study of neurophysiology. I recalled that while a young instructor in psychology at Columbia Uni¬ versity in the early 1920s I went down to the College of Physicians and Surgeons, then located at 59th Street near 10th Avenue, to take a course in neuroanatomy with Professors Tilney and Elwyn. Professor Elwyn was the anatomist who gave us most of the lectures and supervised our microscopic examination of slides of spinal sections. Dr. Tilney was one of the great neurologists of his day. 1 remember vivid¬ ly his coming in a dinner jacket to an evening lecture to tell us about his diagnosis of brain pathology and about the surgical procedures involved in its therapy. As a student and teacher of psychology, 1 could not help but be inter¬ ested in the workings of the brain and central nervous system. The early chapters of William James’s two-volume Principles of Psychology were filled with speculations about the relation of mind and brain, as were Ladd and Woodworth’s Elements of Physiological Psychology. Both books, if you were to read them today, would greatly amuse you by the extent of the ignorance that then passed for scientific knowledge. In more recent years, my read¬ ing in this field included many books of much more recent vintage. Let me just mention a few in passing: C. S. Sherrington’s The Integrative Action of the Nervous System; C. Judson Herrick’s The Brains of Rats and Men; ]. C. 3

Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes

Eccles’s The Neurophysiological Basis of Mind; Ward Halstead’s Brain and In¬ telligence; Warren McCulloch’s Embodiments of Mind; K. S. Lashley’s Brain Mechanisms and Intelligence; Wilder Penfield’s essay on “The Physiological Basis of the Mind,” in Control of the Mind. Even more recently, the rise of experimental researches and techno¬ logical advances in the field of artificial intelligence has opened up anoth¬ er vein of interest in the physical basis of mind; and I have turned to such books as John von Neumann’s The Computer and the Brain; Minds and Machines, a collection of papers edited by A. R. Anderson; A. M. Turing’s essay “Computing Machinery and Intelligence”; J. Z. Young’s Programs of the Brain; Daniel C. Dennett’s very recent Brainstorms. Please forgive me for what may appear to be pretension to some erudi¬ tion in a field in which you are all experts. I mention my excursions into the literature of neurophysiology and of artificial intelligence in order to allay the suspicion that may arise in your minds when I proceed now to deal philosophically—even metaphysically—with the problem of the rela¬ tion of mind to brain. You might suspect that my philosophical speculations reflect ancient and venerable theories that no longer stand up in the light of the facts uncovered by the most advanced scientific research. You might even suspect that since I am going to talk to you as a philosopher, I might feel justified in doing so in cavalier ignorance of relevant scientific knowledge bearing on the matters to be considered. I would like to assure you that neither suspicion is justified. I may not be as well-informed with regard to the most recent advances in neurophysiology as I should be, but I hope you will find that my philosophical consideration of mind and brain does not fly in the face of facts that must be taken into account. The two main questions that I would like to consider with you can be stated as follows: (1) Will our knowledge of the brain and nervous system both central and autonomic, either now or in the future, suffice to explain all aspects of animal behavior? (2) On the supposition that the answer to that question is affirmative, then the second question is: Does this mean that we will also succeed in explaining human behavior, especially human thought, in terms of what we know, now or in the future, about the human brain and nervous system? You will observe at once, I am sure, that the answer to the second question, in the light of an affirmative answer to the first question, de¬ pends on one crucial point: whether the difference between human be¬ ings and brute animals is a difference in kind or in degree. To probe and ponder the answers to these two questions, I propose to proceed as follows. Eirst, briefly to explain the distinction between differ¬ ence in kind and difference in degree, and especially the two modes of differences in kind—radical and superficial. Second, to illustrate a radical difference in kind by considering humans in relation to angels and to eliminate what I hope you will agree is an erroneous view of the relation 4

Mortimer J. Adier

of mind to brain. Third, to consider humans in relation to brutes and also in relation to machines devised to represent artifical intelligence. And, finally, to propose what I hold to be the correct view of the relation of the human mind to the human brain—correct, that is, until future experimen¬ tal research in neurophysiology and in the sphere of artificial intelligence succeeds in refuting it.

Differences in kind and in degree A difference in degree exists between two things when one is more and the other is less in a given specified respect. Thus, for example, two lines of unequal length differ only in degree. Similarly, two brains of unequal weight or complexity differ only in degree. A difference in kind exists between two things when one possesses a property or attribute that the other totally lacks. Thus, for example, a rec¬ tangle and a circle differ in kind for one has interior angles and the other totally lacks them. So, too, a vertebrate organism that has a brain and cen¬ tral nervous system differs in kind from organisms that totally lack these organs. A difference in kind is superficial if it is based upon and can be ex¬ plained by an underlying difference in degree. Thus, for example, the apparent difference in kind between water and ice (you can walk on one and not on the other) can be explained by the rate of motion of their com¬ ponent molecules, which is an underlying difference in degree. Similarly, the apparent difference in kind between humans and other animals (things that human beings can do that other animals cannot do at all) may be explainable in terms of the degree of complexity of their brains. If that is so, then the apparent difference in kind is superficial. A difference in kind is radical if it cannot be explained in terms of any underlying difference in degree, but only by the presence of a factor in one that is totally absent in the other. Consider the difference between plants and the higher animals. This appears to be a difference in kind, for the animals perform operations totally absent in plants. If this difference in kind can be explained only in terms of the presence in animals and the absence in plants of brains and nervous systems, then it is a radical, not a superficial, difference in kind.

Angels and human beings Let me begin by saying that I wish you to consider angels only as possible beings—as purely hypothetical entities. Whether or not there is any truth in the religious belief that angels really exist need not concern us. As possible beings, angels are purely spiritual. Our interest in them here 5

Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes

arises from the fact that they are conceived as minds without bodies. As minds without bodies, angels know and will and love, but not in the same manner that we do. Their lack of bodies has a number of striking conse¬ quences. They do not learn from experience. They do not think discur¬ sively, for they have no imaginations or memories. Their knowledge, which is intuitive, derives from innate ideas implanted in them at the moment of their creation. They speak to one another telepathically with¬ out the use of any medium of communication. Their minds, which are in¬ fallible, never go to sleep. In all these respects, minds without bodies differ from the human mind precisely because the latter is associated with a body and depends upon that body for some if not all of its functions. You may question the possibility of angels—of minds without bodies, minds without brains. If so, let me defend the possibility of angels against the materialists who think they have grounds for denying that angels are possible. I do so because, as you will see presently, the error of the mate¬ rialists has a critical bearing on of my treatment of the problem of minds and brains. The argument of the materialists runs as follows. They assert that nothing exists in reality except corporeal things, from elementary parti¬ cles up to the most complex organisms, from atoms to stars and galaxies. But angels are said to be incorporeal. Therefore, they conclude, angels are impossible, as inconceivable and impossible as are round squares. The argument is weak in one respect and faulty in another. Its initial premise (that nothing except corporeal things exist) is an unproved and unprovable assumption. It may be true, but we have no grounds for as¬ serting its truth, neither with certitude nor even beyond a reasonable doubt. It is as much a matter of faith as the religious belief in the reality of angels. Even if we were to grant the truth of that initial premise, the argument is faulty, because the conclusion does not follow. If the premise assumed were true, the valid conclusion to be drawn from it is that angels—incorporeal beings—do not exist in reality. But the conclusion that angels cannot exist—that they are impossible—does not follow at all. In fact, there are many positive arguments to support the conceivability and possibility of angels, though I am not going to take the time to set them before you. For our present purposes, let it suffice for us to recog¬ nize that the exponents of materialism cannot validly deny the possibility of angels. This being so, neither can they deny that the human mind may be a spiritual—an immaterial—factor associated with the brain as a corpo¬ real factor, both of which are needed to explain human thought. This brings us to a view at the opposite extreme from materialism, a view that looks upon the human mind as an immaterial substance, an immaterial power, that does not need a brain for its unique activity, which is rational thought. This is the view taken by Plato in antiquity and by Des¬ cartes at the beginning of modern times. It commits what I have called an 6

Mortimer J. Adler

angelistic fallacy, for it regards the rational soul or human intellect as if it were an incarnate angel—a mind that, in humans, may be associated with a body, but one that does not depend upon or need a body for its intellectual operations. I do not have to persuade you, in the light of all you know about the dependence of human mental operations upon brain functions and pro¬ cesses, and all you know about the effects of brain pathology upon human thought, that this Platonic and Cartesian view of the human mind as an in¬ carnate angel flies in the face of well-attested evidence and must there¬ fore be rejected. I wish only to add that, on purely philosophical grounds, the dualism of mind or soul and body does not stand up. It denies the uni¬ ty of the human being. It makes us a duality of two independent sub¬ stances—as independent as a boat and the person who is rowing it. Either of these can cease to exist without the other ceasing to exist. They are existentially distinct and separable, as our own mind and body are not. If they were, we should be left with the inexplicable mystery of why they were combined—why the human mind should have any association with a human body.

Human beings, other animals —and intelligent machines There is no question that in many behavioral respects we differ from other animals only in degree. Nor is there any question that the human brain differs from the brains of the higher mammals in degree—in com¬ plexity and in the ratio of brain weight to body weight. There may be some question as to whether human and animal brains also differ in kind. I would like to leave this question for you to answer. For example, is the asymmetry of the human brain’s left and right lobes uniquely human? Is the absence in animal brains of anything like the motor center for speech, which seems to be connected with cortical asymmetry, a difference in kind? Is the special character of the very large frontal lobe of the human brain another indication of a neurological difference in kind? Whatever answers you give to these questions should be considered in the light of what I am now going to say about behavioral differences in kind between humans and brutes. Here are the differences between hu¬ mans and brutes that I think are differences in kind, not in degree. Whether these differences in kind are superficial or radical remains to be seen. So far as we can tell, animals are capable only of perceptual thought, whereas humans are capable of conceptual thought, which appears totally absent in animals. Conceptual and syntactical speech, with a vocabulary of words that refer to imperceptible and unimaginable objects, together with the way in which humans learn speech, is one indication of this. It is 7

Minds and Brains: Angeis, Humans, and Brutes

unrefuted by all the recent work on so-called speech by chimpanzees and bottle-nosed dolphins. So far as we can tell, animal perceptual thought, involving perceptual abstractions and generalizations, cannot deal with any object that is not perceptible, or that is not perceptually present. Human conceptual thought, in sharp contrast, deals both with objects that are not perceptually present and with objects that are totally imper¬ ceptible—with angels, for example. This basic difference between perceptual and conceptual thought, and the fact that man alone seems to possess the power of conceptual thought, explains many other differences between human and animal be¬ havior. Man is the only animal with an extended historical tradition and with cultural, as opposed to merely genetic, continuity between the gen¬ erations. Man is the only animal that makes laws and constitutions for the associations he forms. Man is the only animal that makes machinery and that produces things by machinofacturing. None of these things, and oth¬ ers like them, would be possible without conceptual thought and concep¬ tual speech. If I am right concerning the existence of behavioral differences in kind between humans and brutes, we must face the question that still remains: Is this difference in kind superficial or radical? Can it be explained in terms of differences in degree between human and animals? If so, it is only superficial. If not, it is radical. One other condition must be satisfied in order for us to conclude that the difference is only superficial. The differences in degree between human and animal brains must itself provide us with an adequate expla¬ nation of the apparent difference in kind between human and animal behavior. Let me table that question for a moment in order, first, to consider the human mind in relation to the machines that are supposed to embody ar¬ tificial intelligence and are supposed to differ in degree only from human intelligence. I do this because it will have a critical bearing on the ultimate question to be resolved. Here the most important things to point out are that the difference between the human brain and the artifacts supposedly endowed by their makers with intelligence lies in the fact that the latter are purely electrical networks, whereas the human brain is a chemical factory as well as an electrical network, and that the chemistry of the brain is indispensable to its electrical operation. The extraordinary researches of the last thirty years have shown us how important the chemical facilitators and transmitters are to the operations of the human brain. These are absent from the functioning of artificial in¬ telligence machines so far, though there is now some movement in the direction of creating what are called “wet computers.” Until that is fully realized, there will remain a difference in kind between the human brain and computers, one that would not be removed even if machines could be 8

Mortimer J. Adler

constructed that had electrical units and connections in excess of ten raised to the eleventh power.

The Turing game If the dream of wet computers is not fully realized, neurophysiology may some day be able to explain human thought, but we will never be able to construct a machine, no matter how complex and refined electrically, that will think the way that human beings do. We can train dogs and horses to do very complicated and remarkable tricks that have nothing to do with their possessing intelligence of the sort that any human being has. So, too, we can program computers to do even more complicated and more extraordinary tricks that are amazing counterfeits of human thought, but this does not mean that they have the power of human thought, or that they are reflexively aware that they are thinking and know what they are thinking. If the only difference between men and brutes was the relative size and complexity of the nervous machinery, aided and abetted by the products of brain chemistry, then wet computers might be constructed to think as well as men, if not better, especially if future computers exceed the human brain’s componentry by some power greater than ten raised to the eleventh power and if something analogous to all the human brain’s chemical agents is operative in a so-called wet computer. However, if the difference between men and brutes is not purely a quantitative difference in brain weight and complexity, relative to body size and weight; if, instead, the difference between the perceptual power of brutes and the conceptual power of humans stems from the presence in man of an immaterial factor—the human intellect that cooperates with the brain but whose operations are not reducible to brain processes— then no computer, regardless of how extensive its componentry and how chemically assisted its electrical circuitry is, will ever be able to think, to engage in conceptual thought as human beings do. As Descartes said centuries ago, matter cannot think. The best computer that ever can be made by man will always be, electrically and chemically, nothing but a material thing. That is why the test proposed by A. M. Turing—a test to discover whether computers will ever be able to think in human fashion.—is so interesting and so significant. It is an answer to Descartes’s challenge to the materialists of his day, defying them to build a machine that could think intellectually. The Turing game is the only critical test that I know whereby to deter¬ mine whether computers can think in the way in which human beings think, A. M. Turing, by the way, was the somewhat mad English genius who broke the German enigma code. The Turing test is based on the following game as a model. An interro9

Minds and Brains: Angeis, Humans, and Brutes

gator stands in front of a screen behind which are a pair of male and fe¬ male human beings. The interrogator, by asking them questions and considering the answers they give in written form, must try to determine which one of the persons is a male and which a female. The persons behind the screen must do their intelligent best to deceive the interroga¬ tor. If they do their intelligent best, they will succeed. The interrogator’s determination will be no better than a guess on his part—fifty percent right, fifty percent wrong. Now, says Turing, place a human being and a computer behind the screen, and let the computer have what Turing calls merely infant or initial programming. Infant programming can be of two sorts. (I) Our own infant program¬ ming consists of the relatively small number of spinal or cerebrospinal re¬ flexes with which we are born. Other animals, with more or less elaborate instinctive patterns of innate preformed behavior, have much more elab¬ orate infant programming of this sort than humans do. Analogous to such infant programming would be the programming of a computer to give preformed responses to certain definite stimuli. Let us suppose that the computer’s infant programming greatly ex¬ ceeded man’s infant programming in the form of innate reflexes. No mat¬ ter how large the number of preestablished responses to stimuli pro¬ grammed into the computer, that number—N—would never be large enough for the computer to pass the Turing test to be described below; for though the computer could be programmed to answer N questions, there would always be the N + 1 question, and more after that, which the computer would be unable to answer. (2) The other sort of infant programming that humans have consists in their innate abilities to learn, among which, for example, is their ability to learn to speak any language whatsoever, or their ability to think about any subject whatsoever within the range of all possible thinkables. To pass the test proposed by Turing, a machine would have to have this second kind of infant programming, and have it to a degree that at least equalled its possession by human beings. No computer yet built has such programming. All have much more infant programming of the first sort than humans have, but none yet has the second kind of infant programming. Until a computer does, it will fail to deceive the interrogator. By asking questions beyond the range of N, no matter how large N is, the interrogator will always be able to detect which answer came from a machine and which from a human being. I am betting that a machine with programming of the second sort will never be built and so no machine will ever successfully pass Turing’s test. If I turn out to be wrong about this—and only the future will tell—then I will concede that machines can think the way human beings do, and that physical processes, whether merely electrical or electrochemical, can pro-

10

Mortimer J. Adler

vide us with an adequate explanation of human conceptual thought as well as of animal perceptual thought. Before I go on, let me call your attention to three matters that are connected with or emerge from our consideration of the Turing test. The first is the historic fact that the seventeenth-century philosopher, Descartes, anticipated Turing by proposing a similar test to show that machines—and animals, which he regarded as machines with senses and brains but without intellects—cannot think. It was a conversational test. No machine will ever be built, Descartes said, that will be able to engage in conversation in the way in which two human beings engage in conver¬ sation that is infinitely flexible and unpredictable in the turns that it will take. Second, whether or not a Turing machine, contrary to Descartes’s prediction, will ever be built, it is certainly clear that no talking chimpan¬ zee or dolphin, using its sign language, could ever pass the Turing test of being indistinguishable from a human being behind the screen. Third, whether you think that the difference in kind between humans and brutes is only superficial depends on your predicting that neuro¬ physiology will someday be able to explain how human beings perform distinctively in the Turing game. Does the power of the human brain account for their distinctive performance? Or is some other factor—some immaterial factor, such as Descartes thought the human intellect to be— needed to explain it?

Minds and brains We have already encountered two extreme views of the relation of the hu¬ man mind or intellect to the human brain. At one extreme, there is the materialist who denies not only the reality but also the possibility of im¬ material beings, powers, or operations. On this materialist view, brain action and processes provide the necessary and also the sufficient condi¬ tions for all mental operations, human conceptual thought as well as ani¬ mal perceptual thought. This view has come to be called the identity hy¬ pothesis. The word identity signifies that mind and brain are existentially inseparable. The word hypothesis concedes that it is an unproved—and, I think, also unprovable—assumption. The identity, hypothesis takes two forms, one more extreme than the other. The more extreme form is known as “reductive materialism.” It claims that there is not even an analytical distinction between the action of the mind and the action of the brain. The less extreme form—in my judgment much more in accord with the indisputable facts—admits that any description of brain processes is always analytically distinct from any description of mental processes; we do not use the same terms in both

11

Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes

cases, and cannot. This is just as true of animal perceptual thought as it is true of human conceptual thought. Conceding the analytical difference between brain processes and thought processes, this less extreme form of materialism nevertheless insists that mind and brain are existentially inseparable, and so brain action should be able to explain all acts of the mind, both conceptual and perceptual. On this hypothesis, tenable in its less extreme form, neurophysiology should be able to succeed in explain¬ ing all aspects of human intelligence as well as all aspects of animal intelligence. The furthest reaches of human thought should not escape its explanatory powers. At the other extreme, there are the immaterialists who deny that brain processes can now, or will ever be able to, explain human thought. On this view, brain action is not even a necessary, much less a sufficient con¬ dition, for thought. This immaterialist view takes its most extreme form in the philosophy of Bishop Berkeley, who denied the very existence of mat¬ ter and, therefore, regarded humans as purely spiritual creatures, no less spirits than the angels in heaven. The extreme form of immaterialism flies in the face of indisputable facts, just as the extreme form of materialism does. We should, therefore, have no hesitation in rejecting both of these extremes. The less extreme form of immaterialism is, as we have already observed, the Platonic and Cartesian view of the rational soul or the human intellect as an incarnate angel, somehow incarcerated in a human body—a purely spiritual sub¬ stance dwelling in a body that it in no way needs for its essential opera¬ tion, which is rational thought. Just one fact—and one negative fact is al¬ ways quite sufficient—casts grave doubt on the Platonic and Cartesian view. Angels, as I pointed out, never sleep. Their intellects are always ac¬ tive. Human beings do fall asleep and wake up. Their intellects are some¬ times inactive. We may dream from time to time, but we are not always thinking. That fact is inexplicable on the Cartesian and Platonic view of the intellect’s relation to the human body and brain. In between these two extreme views, each in its several forms, lies the only view that recommends itself to me as fitting all the facts we know. It fits everything we know about the nature of human thought and about the limitations of matter and its physical properties. I would describe this middle view as a moderate materialism combined with an equally moder¬ ate immaterialism. Its moderate materialism consists in its accepting two tenets held by the less extreme form of the identity hypothesis. The first of these tenets is that brain processes and mental processes are analytically distinguish¬ able. No description of the one can ever be substituted for a description of the other. It also agrees that brain processes are at least a necessary condition for the occurrence of mental processes—something that is denied by the extreme forms of immaterialism.

12

Mortimer J. Adier

The middle view that I espouse is also materialistic to the extent that it concedes that every aspect of perceptual thought, in humans as well as in other animals—all the acts of sense perception, imagination, and memo¬ ry, as well as emotions, passions, and desires—can be or will someday be explained entirely in neurophysiological terms. There is nothing immate¬ rial or spiritual about any of the behavioral or mental operations that are common to human beings and other animals. What is immaterialistic about this middle view—and quite moderately immaterialistic, in my judgment—can be summed up by saying that hu¬ man thought (that is, distinctively conceptual thought) cannot now, and never will, be explained in terms of brain action. Nor can the freedom of the human will—the freedom of choice that is distinctively human—ever be explained in terms of physical causation or the motions of material particles. In other words, without the acts of perception, imagination, and mem¬ ory, all of which are acts of the sense organs and the brain, conceptual thought cannot occur. Mental pathology and disabilities, aphasias of all sorts, senile dementia, and so on, indicate plainly the role of the brain in the life of the mind. But that is a limited role. Perhaps the most precise way of summarizing this middle view is as follows. We see with our eyes and with the visual cortex of the brain. We hear with our ears and with the acoustical cortex of the brain. But what or¬ gan do we think with? What is the organ of conceptual thought? The middle view answers: not with the brain. We do not think conceptually with our brains, even if we cannot think conceptually without our brains. In short, the brain is a necessary, but not the sufficient, condition of concep¬ tual thought. On this one crucial point, the middle view differs from the less extreme form of the immaterialist or the non-identity hypothesis— the view of Plato and Descartes. This means that an immaterial factor or power—the human intellect and will—is involved in cooperation with the human brain in the produc¬ tion of conceptual thought and free choice. And this if true, as I think it is, means that the difference in kind between human beings and other ani¬ mals, not to mention machines, is a radical, not a superficial, difference in kind. It also means that mankind occupies a position on the boundary line between the whole realm of corporeal creatures, and the realm of spiritu¬ al beings, the angels and God, whether these be regarded as mere possi¬ bilities or are believed in as actual. But mankind, in this middle position, does not straddle the line that divides the material from the spiritual, with one foot in each realm, as Plato and Descartes would have us think. Mankind is mainly in the realm of corporeal things, but by the power of his immaterial intellect, he is able to reach over into the spiritual realm.

13

Minds and Brains: Angels, Humans, and Brutes

Concluding reflections Permit me a few concluding reflections. I am relatively certain of only two things. One is that failure to concede the indispensable role of the brain in human thought is an angelistic fallacy that must be rejected. The other is that the materialistic denial of the possibility of spiritual substances and of immaterial powers, such as the human intellect, must also be rejected. With somewhat less assurance, I am persuaded by everything I know that brain action by itself does not and cannot suffice to explain conceptu¬ al thought, because the essential character of such thought involves tran¬ scendence of all material conditions. The reach of the human mind to ob¬ jects of thought that are totally imperceptible and totally unimaginable is the clearest indication of this. Where does this leave us? As I see it, with these three conclusions: (1) All aspects of animal behavior, animal intelligence, and animal mental¬ ity—all below the level of conceptual thought—can be or will be satisfac¬ torily explained by our knowledge of the brain and nervous system. (2) Such knowledge can now contribute—and in the future it will do even more to contribute—to the explanation of the acts of the human mind. But neurophysiology will never provide a completely satisfactory expla¬ nation of conceptual thought and freedom of choice. (3) Programmed machines, at their very best, may simulate acts of animal or human intelli¬ gence; but, since they are clearly not living, conscious organisms, such simulation is never more than a counterfeit of perceptual or conceptual thought. It is thought that the machine itself does not experience, thought of which the machine is not reflexively aware. It is never the real thing.

14

PART TWO

Current Developments in the Arts and Sciences

Electing the U.S. President Douglass Cater

Douglass Cater has had a distinguished career in journalism and public affairs. For many years on the staff of The Reporter Magazine, he was its national editor when in 1964 he was made special assistant to President Lyndon Johnson on education and health policy. In this position, collaborating with James Killian, John Gardner, and others, he helped to develop programs that led to the Elementary and Secondary Education Act of 1965, the Public Broadcasting Corporation, the International Education Act, and the Teacher Corps. A founding fellow of the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, Mr. Cater was director of its program in communications and society, which has made studies of television and its impact, and has been in charge of designing its Center for Governance at Wye Plantation in Maryland, to which he has contributed a paper on the U.S. presidential electoral process. The recipient of numerous grants and awards, he has taught at various colleges and universities and is the author of The Fourth Branch of Government (1959), a study of the role of the press in American politics: Power in Washington (1964), delineating “sub-governments” in American politics; and other works. In February of this year Mr. Cater was appointed president of Washington College, the tenth oldest chartered college in the United States, in Chestertown, Maryland.

P

aradox now haunts our presidential selection process. In the continu¬ ing effort to extend the popular franchise, latter-day developments in the way we choose our nation’s leader appear to be threatening the “legitimacy” (i.e., the capacity to govern) of the president who emerges from the contest. This has been accompanied by further decline in the ef¬ fective role of the political parties and, measured by public opinion polls and voter turnout, widespread citizen disillusionment with the workings of the electoral process. The 1980 election brought the lowest percent¬ age of voters to the polls since 1948; during the past two decades the trend has been steadily downward. The time has come as an urgent priority of governance to consider how the presidential electoral process can better serve its intended purposes in a free society: to identify and call forth the most worthy candidates, to engage the serious interests of the electorate, and to choose a leader while least disrupting the ongoing conduct of government in a time of sustained challenge at home and abroad. I During the long, hot summer of 1787, no issue provoked more vacillation among the Constitution drafters at Philadelphia than the choosing of the chief executive. They had little difficulty in dehning the president’s duties and even determining how he should be addressed—“His Excellency” seemed appropriately respectful but non-monarchical. Deciding on the electoral process, however, stirred continuing dispute. A perception widely shared among the delegates was that the method of picking the president would greatly influence the power structure they were striving to create. Their dispute did not arouse the familiar antagonisms of big state versus small or northern states versus southern. Instead, this was a struggle over the very nature of American government. Edmund Randolph of Virginia began the debate within the first fort¬ night of the convocation at Philadelphia by offering a resolution to allow the first branch of the national legislature to choose the president. James Wilson of Pennsylvania responded that “at least... in theory” he favored election by the people, since the experience of New York and Massachu¬ setts showed this to be a “convenient and successful mode.” He entered a 17

Electing the U.S. President

resolution to divide the states into districts in which qualified voters would choose electors. He was opposed by Roger Sherman of Connecti¬ cut who thought the appointment should be made by the national legisla¬ ture so that the national executive would be “absolutely dependent on that body.” Executive independence, he argued, would be “the very essence of tyranny.” Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts, opposing both Randolph and Wilson, submitted a resolution to permit choice by the governors of the various states. Randolph objected. “The governors,” he said sarcastically, “will not cherish the great Oak which is to reduce them to paltry shrubs.” George Mason of Virginia felt that most objections would be obviated by placing executive power in the hands of a triumvirate: “Under a single Executive,” he reasoned, “the Government will, of course, soon degener¬ ate into a Monarchy.” James Madison favored a single executive who would be aided by a council to advise him but not to control his authority. Randolph suggested a seven-year term; Sherman, three years; Mason, at least seven but without eligibility for a second term. Others proposed eleven and fifteen years. Possibly with tongue in cheek, Rufus King of New York suggested twenty years, noting that this would represent “the median life of princes.” Wilson took him seriously and protested that a president entering office at age thirty-five would be at age fifty-five “in the very prime of life . . . cast aside like a useless hulk.” Gerry observed sadly, “We seem to be entirely at a loss on this head.” By midsummer, the argument was in full flower. Still no progress had been made on the method of selection. On July 17 the Gommittee of the Whole, by a vote of 10-0, opted for a unitary executive and, by 9-1, struck out Randolph’s proposal that the choice be made by the national legisla¬ ture, substituting somewhat vaguely: “by the citizens of the United States.” Then after defeating, 2-8, a resolution to allow the state legisla¬ tures to choose the electors, the convention reversed itself and restored, 10-0, presidential selection by the national legislature. Gomparing this method to the election of the Pope by the Gonclave of Gardinals, Gouverneur Morris of Pennsylvania offered the dour opinion that such an ar¬ rangement would soon reduce itself to the work “of intrigue, of cabal, and of faction.” Gharles Gotesworth Pinckney of South Garolina argued on the other hand that a popular election would be dominated by “a few active and designing men.” And Golonel Mason dismissed the notion of popular election with his famous rejoinder: “It would be as unnatural to refer the choice of a proper character for Ghief Magistrate to the people, as it would, to refer a trial of colours to a blind man. The extent of the Gountry renders it impossible that the people can have the requisite capacity to judge the respective pretensions of the Gandidates.” In the subsequent roll call, only Pennsylvania cast a favorable vote for popular election.

18

Douglass Cater

Two days later, the delegates voted in favor of a six-year term after hearing Ellsworth’s argument that the executive by too frequent elections would “not be firm eno’. There must be duties which will make him un¬ popular. . . . ’ Williamson of North Carolina made the practical point that election expenses would be considerable and ought not to be unnecessar¬ ily repeated. Shorter terms, he added, would be unattractive to the best men while those “of an inferior character will be liable to be corrupted.’’ On July 24 the Committee of the Whole affirmed once again that the president would be chosen by the national legislature (7 aye, 4 no) and then, on Wilson’s suggestion, specified that the choice would be made by not more than fifteen legislators selected “by lot.’’ These electors were to retire immediately and not separate until they had reached a choice. “By this mode intrigue would be avoided in the first instance, and the depen¬ dence would be diminished,” Wilson concluded. Still the controversy raged. Ellsworth proposed that the president’s first election be made by the national legislature, but that reelection should require the support of the state legislatures. Madison argued there would be “very little opportunity for cabal or corruption” if the electors were to meet at some place distant from the rest of the govern¬ ment. Gerry objected that a popular election would put power in one set of men, such as the Society of the Cincinnati, acting in concert. On July 26 the convention voted once again for a unitary president, chosen by the national legislature, to hold office for a single term of seven years dura¬ tion. The state roll call was 6 aye, 3 no, 1 divided, 1 absent. At one point in the proceedings, Benjamin Eranklin, much the oldest delegate, made a lengthy speech urging that the chief executive should receive no salary but be reimbursed for “necessary expenses” as General George Washington had been compensated during his eight years as Gommander-in-Chief of the Continental Armies. Otherwise, argued Eranklin, the combining of ambition and avarice would attract “men of strong passions and indefatigable activity in their selfish pursuits.” Al¬ ready being touted for first president, presiding officer Washington made no comment. Madison records in his journal that Franklin’s proposal was “treated with great respect, but rather for the author of it than from any apparent conviction of its expediency or practicality.” The end of August found the delegates still at odds over presidential selection. Dispute arose about whether the national legislature should choose by a single or joint ballot. Once again, Morris attempted to pro¬ mote an amendment substituting popular elections. On August 24 he was defeated by a vote of 5 to 6. The breakthrough finally came on September 4 when the Committee of Eleven, appointed to come up with a solution, reported to the assembled delegates a plan remarkably close to the final one. Each state would choose its electors in a manner to be determined by its own legislature

19

"During the long, hot summer of 1787, no issue provoked more vacillation among the Constitution drafters at Philadelphia than the choosing of the chief executive. ” Pictured here are some of the delegates who helped decide on our electoral process. James Madison

Benjamin Franklin

Gouverneur Morris

George Mason

Charles Cotesworth Pinckney

Rufus King

Elbridge Gerry

Electing the U. S. President

and equal in number to its combined senators and representatives. These electors would convene in their respective states (to avoid the cabals and corruption of a national gathering) and cast ballots for two persons, at least one of whom would have to be the inhabitant of another state. No member of Congress or federal officeholder could serve as elector. In the absence of a clear majority on the first ballot, the U.S. Senate was to act immediately to choose the president. Objections being raised to allowing a Senate “aristocracy” to make the choice, the delegates voted to move this responsibility to the House of Representatives with a proviso that each state’s delegation would be counted as a single vote. The delegates decided also to fix the presiden¬ tial term at four years with no hindrance to reelections. They voted down an effort by Madison to establish an Advisory Council for the President, thereby provoking Mason’s lament, “He will be unsupported by proper information and advice, and will generally be directed by minions and favorites ...” Because of this and other complaints. Mason subsequently felt constrained from signing his name to the new Constitution. Consider the outcome of all the disputation: The miracle workers at Philadelphia decisively rejected the notion that citizens should pick their chief magistrate by direct vote. Though they decided not to allow the initial choice to be made by the U.S. Congress, they eventually gave the House of Representatives authority to break electoral deadlocks, which many felt would occur with fair frequency.* The electors themselves were to be distinguished citizens, though forbidden to hold federal office. They would not journey to the nation’s capital but would meet in their respective states. Their balloting would not specify which vote was in¬ tended for president and for vice-president.+ The electors would be al¬ lowed to ballot only once. If no one received a majority of the electoral votes, the U.S. House of Representatives would make the choice from the five (later amended to three) receiving the highest votes. It is clear that fear of faction, cabal, and intrigue was what moved the Constitution makers, leading them to impose a system of checks throughout the elec¬ toral process. The authors of The Federalist treated the results as an unmitigated success. Consider the assessment made by Alexander Hamilton in Feder¬ alist Paper No. 68: “The mode of the appointment of the Chief Magistrate of the United States is almost the only part of the [Constitutional] system, of any consequence, which has escaped without severe censure, or which has received the slightest mark of approbation from its opponents. The * In fact, the House has been obliged to act directly only twice so far, in 1800 and 1824. In 1876 Congress acted jointly to set up an Electoral Commission to adjudicate disputed re¬ turns from four states. t In 1804 the Twelfth Amendment to the Constitution remedied this oversight following the tie vote between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr in the election of 1800.

22

Douglass Cater

most plausible of these . . . has even deigned to admit that the election of the President is pretty well guarded.” Hamilton claimed four major benefits for the Electoral College: (1) It would permit the choice of a president to be made by persons who were “most capable of analysing the qualities adapted” to the station of the presidency and who would be “most likely to possess the information and discernment requisite to such complicated investigations.” (2) It prom¬ ised to make the executive “independent for his continuance in office on all but the people themselves.” He would not be directly answerable to the Congress or to state governments. (3) It would reduce the opportuni¬ ty for “tumult and disorder.” The multiple members of the Electoral Col¬ lege and their convocation in the separate states would make it difficult for them to communicate their “heats and ferments” to the people. (4) The same “detached and divided situation” of the electors would raise an obstacle to “cabal, intrigue, and corruption,” since the college would come into being for the sole purpose of choosing a president and vicepresident and would dissolve when this task was accomplished. Hamilton concluded: “The process of election affords a moral certain¬ ty that the office of President will never fall to the lot of any man who is not in an eminent degree endowed with the requisite qualifications. Tal¬ ents for low intrigue and the little arts of popularity may alone suffice to elevate a man to the first honors in a single State; but it will require other talents, and a different kind of merit, to establish him in the esteem and confidence of the whole Union ...” II The first two elections were the only times our nation’s electoral system worked precisely as anticipated by our founding fathers. For the first, in 1789, some states had chosen their electors by popular vote, some by the state legislatures, and the rest by a combination of these two methods. New York failed to act because of a fight between the state senate and assembly while two states—Rhode Island and North Carolina—had not yet ratified the Constitution. George Washington received the unani¬ mous vote of the electors on one of their two ballots; John Adams, with half as many votes, became vice-president. In 1792 Washington was elected to his second term by unanimous vote. Undoubtedly, having such a widely acclaimed father of our country made the choice easier. But by 1796, the incipient Democratic-Republi¬ can Party was beginning to challenge the dominant Federalists, and Thomas Jefferson came within three electoral votes of defeating Adams. Partisanship was on its way, leading to the Jefferson-Burr victory in 1800. Since the electors had not specified which of their two ballots was for president and which for vice-president, their tie vote brought the first crisis of the electoral system and threw the contest into the House of

23

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Boethius

Editor’s Introduction Author of one of the best-known philosophical works in Western thought, The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius was a Roman statesman and man of affairs as well as a philosopher and theologian in the time (ad 493-526) of the Gothic king Theodoric, who had established himself on the throne of the defeated Western Empire, taking advantage of its dis¬ organization. Boethius, a member of the Roman aristocracy equally de¬ voted to Christianity and the classical past, was among those opposed to this pagan usurper, who nevertheless was at first accommodating, having had a Roman education and wishing to preserve a continuity of adminis¬ tration. The age was one of conflict between Rome and the Eastern Empire at Constantinople, especially over the papacy, and Boethius was a leader in the effort to achieve a reconciliation such as the king could only hope would never come about. When it did, in 520, the strained relations between himself and the aristocracy, which rejoiced in the restoration at Rome of a Christian emperor, began to break down. Boethius, as a promi¬ nent member of this class, who by his acts and writings had done much to heal the imperial split, was regarded as especially dangerous. Thus in 524, when the king felt his power slipping away, he had the philosopher arrested, imprisoned, and subsequently executed for treason—with the connivance, apparently, of the emperor, who was glad to have such a sacrificial victim as a means of undermining the considerable following that Theodoric had among Catholic Romans outside the small group to which Boethius belonged. It was while he was in prison at Pavia—500 miles from his library, as he sadly noted—that Boethius wrote the Consolation, an imaginary dialogue between himself and the spirit of Philosophy, who accuses him of having abandoned her. The personal, almost intimate quality of this work, inter¬ spersed as it is with poems, cannot hide the long philosophical tradition on which it draws. Boethius was in all probability the most learned man of the age, thoroughly acquainted with both Greek and Latin writings in the arts and sciences and as thoroughly versed in Christian doctrine. Such a combination recalls Saint Augustine, who had died in 430, and indeed Boethius had the same sense of mission to preserve the classical past during unsettled times that clearly threatened its survival. Like Augustine 297

he, too, wrote treatises on the liberal arts, notably music and astronomy (which for him were really sciences), while he also translated Greek math¬ ematical works along with some of the most important writings of both Plato and Aristotle. Perhaps we owe to him even more of the ancient learning that has come down to us than we do to Augustine, for without Boethius we should hardly know as much as we do know of Greek logic and science, or of the late Platonic schools of Athens and Alexandria, or of late Latin culture, to which Boethius did not apply the same strict stan¬ dard of compatability with Christian doctrine as did Augustine. Having been buried in a church at Pavia, Boethius was for centuries ac¬ corded the veneration of the martyred Saint Severinus, with whose bones his were confused. Thus Cassiodorus, founder of a monastery at Campa¬ nia, included his works in its library as sacred productions, assuring their own survival. The Consolation itself became the most widely read book in the medieval world after the Bible. Translations were made of it into the English vernacular both by King Alfred and by Chaucer (also, somewhat later, by Queen Elizabeth); by the fourteenth century, it had been trans¬ lated as well into French and German. As a result it served more than any other book as the source of medieval understanding of classical philoso¬ phy, of which it was the only version that most men knew, and it was not superseded in this function until the Renaissance made available the original texts on which it had been based. The translation that follows is of H. R. James, first published in 1897.

CONTENTS Page BOOK I BOOK II BOOK III BOOK IV BOOK V

The Sorrows of Boethius The Vanity of Fortune’s Gifts True Happiness and False Good and Ill Fortune Free Will and God’s F oreknowledge

299 311 326 348 366

BOOK I The Sorrows of Boethius

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1

Boethius’s Complaint

I

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

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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.

^Chapter While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my sorrowful com¬ plainings 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 live¬ ly, 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 wov¬ en 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 lowermost edge was inwoven the Greek letter tt, on the topmost the letter and between the two were to be seen steps, like a staircase, from the lower to the upper let¬ ter. This robe, moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each snatched away what he could clutch.2 Her right hand held a note-book; in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of

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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 medi¬ cine 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 dis¬ ease, instead of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your al¬ lurements 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 fas¬ tened 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, lookng into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my mind:

Song 2

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.

Chapter 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 hrst cast it away. Dost thou know

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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 symp¬

toms of lethargy, the usual sickness of de¬ luded 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 3

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.

Chapter 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 lift¬ ed 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 excel¬ lence, 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 perse¬ cuted with false accusations?’ ‘Could I desert thee, child,’ said she, ‘and not lighten the burden which thou hast tak¬ en upon thee through the hatred of my name, by sharing this trouble? Even forget¬ ting that it were not lawful for Philosophy to leave companionless the way of the inno¬

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cent, 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 ser¬ vant Plato lived, wage stern warfare with the rashness of folly? In his lifetime, too, Socra¬ tes, 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 resist¬ ing, 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

Boethius: [Book One] The Consolation of Philosophy 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 disci¬ ples. It may be thou knowest not of the ban¬ ishment of Anaxagoras, of the poison draught of Socrates, nor of Zeno’s tortur¬ ing, because these things happened in a dis¬ tant 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 de¬ struction for no other reason than that, set¬ tled 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 compli¬ ance 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 cita¬ del while they are busy plundering the use¬ less baggage. But we from our vantage ground, safe from all this wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most value¬ less of things, protected by a bulwark which aggressive folly may not aspire to reach.’

Song 4

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 shalt 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!

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Chapter 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 con¬ stant 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 phi¬ losophers ruled them, or if it should so be¬ fall that their rulers would turn philoso¬ phers.”t By his mouth likewise thou didst point out this imperative reason why philos¬ ophers should enter public life, to wit, lest, if the reins of government be left to unprin¬ cipled and profligate citizens, trouble and destruction should come upon the good. Following these precepts, I have tried to apply in the business of public administra¬ tion 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 in¬ volved 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 304

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 innu¬ merable with which they were for ever be¬ ing 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 provin¬ cials through the combined pressure of pri¬ vate 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 judgmentseat, and succeeded in preventing the en¬ forcement of the sale. I rescued the consul¬ ar 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 safe¬ ty 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 con-

*See The Iliad I, 363; GBWW, Vol. 4, p. 6. +See The Republic V, 473D; GBWW, Vol. 7, p. 369.

Boethius: [Book One] The Consolation of Philosophy demned to banishment; and when they de¬ clined to obey, and sought to save them¬ selves 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 precribed time, they should be branded on the forehead and expelled. What would ex¬ ceed the rigour of this severity? And yet on that same day these very men lodged an information against me, and the informa¬ tion was admitted. Just Heaven! had I de¬ served 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 inno¬ cent, at least for the vileness of the accus¬ ers? 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 sen¬ ate 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 illustri¬ ous house a crime? Of a truth the senate, by its decrees concerning me, has made it such! But blind folly, though it deceive it¬ self with false names, cannot alter the true merits of things, and, mindful of the pre¬ cept of Socrates, I do not think it right ei¬ ther to keep the truth concealed or allow falsehood to pass. But this, however it may be, I leave to thy judgment and to the ver¬ dict 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 fal¬ sity would have been manifest, iff had been allowed to use the confession of the inform¬ ers 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 achieve¬ ment of their hopes I do exceedingly mar¬ vel. 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 inno¬ cent, while God beholdeth, is verily mon¬ strous. 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 de¬ struction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the charge of trea¬ son brought against Albinus, with what in¬ difference 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 whenev¬ er a man by proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he dimin¬ ishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What issues have overtak¬ en my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the rewards of true virtue, I under¬ go the penalties of a guilt falsely laid to my charge—nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt cause such unani¬ mous severity among the assessors, but that some consideration, either of the mere

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frailty of human nature, or of fortune’s uni¬ versal instability, availed to soften the ver¬ dict 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 pun¬ ished 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 dis¬ tance of near five hundred miles away. 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 hon¬ ourable 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 Pythago¬ rean maxim, “Follow after God.” It was not likely, then, that I should covet the assis¬ tance 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 suspi¬

cion 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 noth¬ ing, but thou also must be assailed by rea¬ son of the odium which I have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfor¬ tunes, 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 unfor¬ tunate. I remember with chagrin how per¬ verse 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 fas¬ tened 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 unscrupu¬ lous threatening a new crop of lying infor¬ mations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger, every ruffian incited by impuni¬ ty to new daring and to success by the prof¬ its 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:

Song 5 Boethius’s 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:

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So in full-sphered splendour dight Cynthia dims the lamps of night, But unto the orb fraternal Closer drawn,3 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!’

^ Chapter 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 ex¬ ile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not thine own speech re¬ vealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy coun¬ try hast thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have it banish¬ ment, 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 de¬ light in the number of His citizens, not in their banishment; to submit to whose gov¬ ernance and to obey whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most ancient law of this thy country, where¬ by 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 val¬ ue, the doctrines which my books contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is true, only too little com¬ pared 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 de¬ ceits 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 ca¬ lumniation, 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 tumul¬ tuous 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 tu¬ mours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing passion may be soft¬ ened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the force of sharper remedies.’

Song 6

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.

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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. ^ Chapter 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 an¬ swer 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 ex¬ ceedingly 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 mean¬ est,’ 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 dis¬ turb thy mind? But, tell me, dost thou re¬ member 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 an¬ swered 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 my¬ self 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 *See The Iliad II, 204, 205; GBWW, Vol. 4, p.

12.

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the causes of thy sickness and the means of restoring thy health. It is because forgetful¬ ness 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 ex¬ istence 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 Au¬ thor of our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy true judg¬ ment concerning the world’s government.

in that thou believest it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine rea¬ son, 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 rem¬ edies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it casts off true opin¬ ions 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 dis¬ cern the splendour of the true light.’

Song 7

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.

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In the right way Firmly to stay, Nor from it turn? Joy, hope and fear Suffer not near. Drive grief away: Shackled and blind And lost is the mind Where these have sway.

BOOK II

The Vanity of Fortune’s Gifts

Chapter I Thereafter for awhile she remained si¬ lent; and when she had restored my flag¬ ging attention by a moderate pause in her discourse, she thus began: ‘If I have thor¬ oughly ascertained the character and causes of thy sickness, thou art pining with regret¬ ful longing for thy former fortune. It is the change, as thou deemest, of this fortune that hath so wrought upon thy mind. Well do I understand that Siren’s manifold wiles, the fatal charm of the friendship she pre¬ tends for her victims, so long as she is scheming to entrap them—how she unex¬ pectedly abandons them and leaves them overwhelmed with insupportable grief Be¬ think thee of her nature, character, and de¬ serts, and thou wilt soon acknowledge that in her thou hast neither possessed, nor hast thou lost, aught of any worth. Methinks I need not spend much pains in bringing this to thy mind, since, even when she was still with thee, even while she was caressing thee, thou usedst to assail her in manly

terms, to rebuke her, with maxims drawn from my holy treasure-house. But all sud¬ den changes of circumstances bring inevita¬ bly a certain commotion of spirit. Thus it hath come to pass that thou also for awhile hast been parted from thy mind’s tranquilli¬ ty. But it is time for thee to take and drain a draught, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it penetrates within, may prepare the way for stronger potions. Wherefore I call to my aid the sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric, who then only walketh in the right way when she forsakes not my instructions, and Music, my handmaid, I bid to join with her singing, now in lighter, now in graver strain. ‘What is it, then, poor mortal, that hath cast thee into lamentation and mourning? Some strange, unwonted sight, methinks, have thine eyes seen. Thou deemest For¬ tune to have changed towards thee; thou mistakest. Such ever were her ways, ever such her nature. Rather in her very mutabil311

Great Books Library ity hath she preserved towards thee her true constancy. Such was she when she loaded thee with caresses, when she deluded thee with the allurements of a false happiness. Thou hast found out how changeful is the face of the blind goddess. She who still veils herself from others hath fully discovered to thee her whole character. If thou likest her, take her as she is, and do not complain. If thou abhorrest her perfidy, turn from her in disdain, renounce her, for baneful are her delusions. The very thing which is now the cause of thy great grief ought to have brought thee tranquillity. Thou hast been forsaken by one of whom no one can be sure that she will not forsake him. Or dost thou indeed set value on a happiness that is certain to depart? Again I ask. Is Fortune’s presence dear to thee if she cannot be trust¬ ed to stay, and though she will bring sorrow when she is gone? Why, if she cannot be kept at pleasure, and if her flight over¬ whelms with calamity, what is this fleeting visitant but a token of coming trouble? Tru¬ ly it is not enough to look only at what lies

before the eyes; wisdom gauges the issues of things, and this same mutability, with its two aspects, makes the threats of Fortune void of terror, and her caresses little to be desired. Finally, thou oughtest to bear with whatever takes place within the boundaries of Fortune’s demesne, when thou hast placed thy head beneath her yoke. But if thou wishest to impose a law of staying and departing on her whom thou hast of thine own accord chosen for thy mistress, art thou not acting wrongfully, art thou not embittering by impatience a lot which thou canst not alter? Didst thou commit thy sails to the winds, thou wouldst voyage not whither thy intention was to go, but whither the winds drave thee; didst thou entrust thy seed to the fields, thou wouldst set off the fruitful years against the barren. Thou hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy mistress’s caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.’

Song 1

Fortune’s Malice Mad Fortune sweeps along in wanton pride. Uncertain as Euripus’ surging tide; Now tramples mighty kings beneath her feet; Now sets the conquered in the victor’s seat. She heedeth not the wail of hapless woe. But mocks the griefs that from her mischief flow. Such is her sport; so proveth she her power; And great the marvel, when in one brief hour She shows her darling lifted high in bliss. Then headlong plunged in misery’s abyss.

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Chapter II ‘Now I would fain also reason with thee a little in Fortune’s own words. Do thou ob¬ serve whether her contentions be just. “Man,” she might say, “why dost thou pur¬ sue me with thy daily complainings? What wrong have I done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Choose an thou wilt a judge, and let us dispute before him concerning the rightful ownership of wealth and rank. If thou succeedest in showing that any one of these things is the true property of mortal man, I freely grant those things to be thine which thou claimest. When nature brought thee forth out of thy mother’s womb, I took thee, naked and destitute as thou wast, I cherished thee with my substance, and, in the partiality of my fa¬ vour for thee, I brought thee up somewhat too indulgently, and this it is which now makes thee rebellious against me. I sur¬ rounded thee with a royal abundance of all those things that are in my power. Now it is my pleasure to draw back my hand. Thou hast reason to thank me for the use of what was not thine own; thou hast no right to complain, as if thou hadst lost what was wholly thine. Why, then, dost bemoan thy¬ self? I have done thee no violence. Wealth, honour, and all such things are placed un¬ der my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; with me they come, and at my going they depart. I might boldly affirm that if those things the loss of which thou lamentest had been thine, thou couldst nev¬ er have lost them. Am I alone to be forbid¬ den to do what I will with my own? Unre¬ buked, the skies now reveal the brightness

of day, now shroud the daylight in the dark¬ ness of night; the year may now engarland the face of the earth with flowers and fruits, now disfigure it with storms and cold. The sea is permitted to invite with smooth and tranquil surface to-day, to-morrow to roughen with wave and storm. Shall man’s insatiate greed bind me to a constancy for¬ eign to my character? This is my art, this the game I never cease to play. I turn the wheel that spins. I delight to see the high come down and the low ascend. Mount up, if thou wilt, but only on condition that thou wilt not think it a hardship to come down when the rules of my game require it. Wert thou ignorant of my character? Didst not know how Croesus, King of the Lydians, erstwhile the dreaded rival of Cyrus, was afterwards pitiably consigned to the flame of the pyre, and only saved by a shower sent from heav¬ en? Has it ’scaped thee how Paullus paid a meed of pious tears to the misfortunes of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies make such woeful outcry over save the overthrow of kingdoms by the in¬ discriminate strokes of Fortune? Didst thou not learn in thy childhood how there stand at the threshold of Zeus ‘two jars,’ ‘the one full of blessings, the other of calamities’?* How if thou hast drawn over-liberally from the good jar? What if not even now have I departed wholly from thee? What if this very mutability of mine is a just ground for hoping better things? But listen now, and cease to let thy heart consume away with fretfulness, nor expect to live on thine own terms in a realm that is common to all.’

*See The Iliad XXIW, 527, 528; GBWW, Vol. 4, p. 176.

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Song 2

Man’s Covetousness What though Plenty pour her gifts With a lavish hand, Numberless as are the stars, Countless as the sand. Will the race of man, content. Cease to murmur and lament? Nay, though God, all-bounteous, give Gold at man’s desire— Honours, rank, and fame—content Not a whit is nigher; But an all-devouring greed Yawns with ever-widening need. Then what bounds can e’er restrain This wild lust of having. When with each new bounty fed Grows the frantic craving? He is never rich whose fear Sees grim Want forever near.

Chapter ‘If Fortune should plead thus against thee, assuredly thou wouldst not have one word to offer in reply; or, if thou canst find any justification of thy complainings, thou must show what it is. I will give thee space to speak.’ Then said I: ‘Verily, thy pleas are plausi¬ ble—yea, steeped in the honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only while they are sounding in the ear; the sense of his misfortunes lies deeper in the heart of the wretched. So, when the sound ceases to vibrate upon the air, the heart’s in¬ dwelling sorrow is felt with renewed bitterness.’ Then said she: ‘It is indeed as thou sayest, for we have not yet come to the curing of thy sickness; as yet these are but lenitives conducing to the treatment of a malady hitherto obstinate. The remedies which go deep I will apply in due season. Neverthe¬ 314

less, to deprecate thy determination to be thought wretched, I ask thee. Hast thou for¬ gotten the extent and bounds of thy felicity? I say nothing of how, when orphaned and desolate, thou wast taken into the care of il¬ lustrious men; how thou wast chosen for alliance with the highest in the state—and even before thou wert bound to their house by marriage, wert already dear to their love—which is the most precious of all ties. Did not all pronounce thee most happy in the virtues of thy wife, the splendid honours of her father, and the blessing of male is¬ sue? I pass over—for I care not to speak of blessings in which others also have shared—the distinctions often denied to age which thou enjoyedst in thy youth. I choose rather to come to the unparalleled culmination of thy good fortune. If the fru¬ ition of any earthly success has weight in the scale of happiness, can the memory of that

Boethius: [Book Two] The Consolation of Philosophy splendour be swept away by any rising flood of troubles? That day when thou didst see thy two sons ride forth from home joint consuls, followed by a train of senators, and welcomed by the good-will of the people; when these two sat in curule chairs in the Senate-house, and thou by thy panegyric on the king didst earn the fame of eloquence and ability; when in the Circus, seated be¬ tween the two consuls, thou didst glut the multitude thronging around with the trium¬ phal largesses for which they looked—methinks thou didst cozen Fortune while she caressed thee, and made thee her darling. Thou didst bear off a boon which she had never before granted to any private person. Art thou, then, minded to cast up a reckon¬ ing with Fortune? Now for the first time she has turned a jealous glance upon thee. If

thou compare the extent and bounds of thy blessings and misfortunes, thou canst not deny that thou art still fortunate. Or if thou esteem not thyself favoured by Fortune in that thy then seeming prosperity hath de¬ parted, deem not thyself wretched, since what thou now believest to be calamitous passeth also. What! art thou but now come suddenly and a stranger to the scene of this life? Thinkest thou there is any stability in human affairs, when man himself vanishes away in the swift course of time? It is true that there is little trust that the gifts of chance will abide; yet the last day of life is in a manner the death of all remaining For¬ tune. What difference, then, thinkest thou, is there, whether thou leavest her by dying, or she leave thee by fleeing away?’

Song 3

All Passes When, in rosy chariot drawn, Phoebus ’gins to light the dawn. By his flaming beams assailed. Every glimmering star is paled. When the grove, by Zephyrs fed. With rose-blossom blushes red;— Doth rude Auster breathe thereon. Bare it stands, its glory gone. Smooth and tranquil lies the deep While the winds are hushed in sleep. Soon, when angry tempests lash. Wild and high the billows dash. Thus if Nature’s changing face Holds not still a moment’s space. Fleeting deem man’s fortunes; deem Bliss as transient as a dream. One law only standeth fast: Things created may not last.

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^Chapter IV Then said I: ‘True are thine admonishings, thou nurse of all excellence; nor can I deny the wonder of my fortune’s swift ca¬ reer. Yet it is this which chafes me the more cruelly in the recalling. For truly in adverse fortune the worst sting of misery is to have been happy.’

‘Well,’ said she, ‘if thou art paying the penalty of a mistaken belief, thou canst not rightly impute the fault to circumstances. If it is the felicity which Fortune gives that moves thee—mere name though it be— come reckon up with me how rich thou art in the number and weightiness of thy bless¬ ings. Then if, by the blessing of Providence, thou hast still preserved unto thee safe and inviolate that which, howsoever thou mightest reckon thy fortune, thou wouldst have thought thy most precious possession, what right hast thou to talk of ill-fortune whilst keeping all Fortune’s better gifts? Yet Symmachus, thy wife’s father—a man whose splendid character does honour to the hu¬ man race—is safe and unharmed; and while he bewails thy wrongs, this rare nature, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly blended, is himself out of danger—a boon thou wouldst have been quick to purchase at the price of life itself. Thy wife yet lives, with her gentle disposition, her peerless modesty and virtue—this the epitome of all her graces, that she is the true daughter of her sire—she lives, I say, and for thy sake only preserves the breath of life, though she loathes it, and pines away in grief and tears for thy absence, wherein, if in naught else, I would allow some marring of thy felicity. What shall I say of thy sons and their con¬ sular dignity—how in them, so far as may be in youths of their age, the example of their father’s and grandfather’s character shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortal man is to preserve his life, how happy art thou, couldst thou but recognise thy bless¬ ings, who possessest even now what no one doubts to be dearer than life! Wherefore, now dry thy tears. Fortune’s hate hath not involved all thy dear ones; the stress of the

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storm that has assailed thee is not beyond measure intolerable, since there are an¬ chors still holding firm which suffer thee not to lack either consolation in the present or hope for the future.’ ‘I pray that they still may hold. For while they still remain, however things may go, I shall ride out the storm. Yet thou seest how much is shorn of the splendour of my fortunes.’ ‘We are gaining a little ground,’ said she, ‘if there is something in thy lot wherewith thou art not yet altogether discontented. But I cannot stomach thy daintiness when thou complainest with such violence of grief and anxiety because thy happiness falls short of completeness. Why, who en¬ joys such settled felicity as not to have some quarrel with the circumstances of his lot? A troublous matter are the conditions of hu¬ man bliss; either they are never realized in full, or never stay permanently. One has abundant riches, but is shamed by his igno¬ ble birth. Another is conspicuous for his nobility, but through the embarrassments of poverty would prefer to be obscure. A third, richly endowed with both, laments the loneliness of an unwedded life. Anoth¬ er, though happily married, is doomed to childlessness, and nurses his wealth for a stranger to inherit. Yet another, blest with children, mournfully bewails the misdeeds of son or daughter. Wherefore, it is not easy for anyone to be at perfect peace with the circumstances of his lot. There lurks in each several portion something which they who experience it not know nothing of, but which makes the sufferer wince. Besides, the more favoured a man is by Fortune, the more fastidiously sensitive is he; and, unless all things answer to his whim, he is over¬ whelmed by the most trifling misfortunes, because utterly unschooled in adversity. So petty are the trifles which rob the most for¬ tunate of perfect happiness! How many are there, dost thou imagine, who would think themselves nigh heaven, if but a small por¬ tion from the wreck of thy fortune should

Boethius: [Book Two] The Consolation of Philosophy fall to them? This very place which thou callest exile is to them that dwell therein their native land. So true is it that nothing is wretched, but thinking makes it so, and con¬ versely every lot is happy if borne with equanimity. Who is so blest by Fortune as not to wish to change his state, if once he gives rein to a rebellious spirit? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of hu¬ man felicity blent! And even if that sweet¬ ness seem to him to bring delight in the enjoying, yet he cannot keep it from depart¬ ing when it will. How manifestly wretched, then, is the bliss of earthly fortune, which lasts not for ever with those whose temper is equable, and can give no perfect satisfac¬ tion to the anxious-minded! ‘Why, then, ye children of mortality, seek ye from without that happiness whose seat is only within us? Error and ignorance be¬ wilder you. I will show thee, in brief, the hinge on which perfect happiness turns. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing, thou wilt say. If, then, thou art master of thyself, thou wilt possess that which thou wilt never be willing to lose, and which Fortune cannot take from thee. And that thou mayst see that happiness can¬ not possibly consist in these things which are the sport of chance, reflect that, if hap¬ piness is the highest good of a creature liv¬ ing in accordance with reason, and if a thing

which can in any wise be reft away is not the highest good, since that which cannot be taken away is better than it, it is plain that Fortune cannot aspire to bestow happiness by reason of its instability. And, besides, a man borne along by this transitory felicity must either know or not know its unstabili¬ ty. If he knows not, how poor is a happiness which depends on the blindness of igno¬ rance! If he knows it, he needs must fear to lose a happiness whose loss he believes to be possible. Wherefore, a never-ceasing fear suffers him not to be happy. Or does he count the possibility of this loss a trifling matter? Insignificant, then, must be the good whose loss can be borne so equably. And, further, I know thee to be one settled in the belief that the souls of men certainly die not with them, and convinced thereof by numerous proofs; it is clear also that the felicity which Fortune bestows is brought to an end with the death of the body: there¬ fore, it cannot be doubted but that, if happi¬ ness is conferred in this way, the whole hu¬ man race sinks into misery when death brings the close of all. But if we know that many have sought the joy of happiness not through death only, but also through pain and suffering, how can life make men happy by its presence when it makes them not wretched by its loss?’

Song 4

The Golden Mean Who founded firm and sure Would ever live secure. In spite of storm and blast Immovable and fast; Whoso would fain deride The ocean’s threatening tide;— His dwelling should not seek On sands or mountain-peak. Upon the mountain’s height

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The storm-winds wreak their spite: The shifting sands disdain Their burden to sustain. Do thou these perils flee, Fair though the prospect be, And fix thy resting-place On some low rock’s sure base. Then, though the tempests roar. Seas thunder on the shore. Thou in thy stronghold blest And undisturbed shalt rest; Live all thy days serene. And mock the heavens’ spleen.

^ Chapter V ‘But since my reasonings begin to work a soothing effect within thy mind, methinks I may resort to remedies somewhat stronger. Come, suppose, now, the gifts of Fortune were not fleeting and transitory, what is there in them capable of ever becoming tru¬ ly thine, or which does not lose value when looked at steadily and fairly weighed in the balance? Are riches, I pray thee, precious either through thy nature or in their own? What are they but mere gold and heaps of money? Yet these fine things show their quality better in the spending than in the hoarding: for I suppose ’tis plain that greed always makes men hateful, while liberality brings fame. But that which is transferred to another cannot remain in one’s own posses¬ sion; and if that be so, then money is only precious when it is given away, and, by be¬ ing transferred to others, ceases to be one’s own. Again, if all the money in the world were heaped up in one man’s possession, all others would be made poor. Sound fills the ears of many at the same time without being broken into parts, but your riches cannot pass to many without being lessened in the process. And when this happens, they must needs impoverish those whom they leave.

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How poor and cramped a thing, then, is riches, which more than one cannot possess as an unbroken whole, which falls not to any one man’s lot without the impoverishment of everyone else! Or is it the glitter of gems that allures the eye? Yet, how rarely excel¬ lent soever may be their splendour, remem¬ ber the flashing light is in the jewels, not in the man. Indeed, I greatly marvel at men’s admiration of them; for what can rightly seem beautiful to a being endowed with life and reason, if it lack the movement and structure of life? And although such things do in the end take on them more beauty from their Maker’s care and their own bril¬ liancy, still they in no wise merit your admi¬ ration since their excellence is set at a lower grade than your own. ‘Does the beauty of the fields delight you? Surely, yes; it is a beautiful part of a right beautiful whole. Fitly indeed do we at times enjoy the serene calm of the sea, ad¬ mire the sky, the stars, the moon, the sun. Yet is any of these thy concern? Dost thou venture to boast thyself of the beauty of any one of them? Art thou decked with spring’s flowers? is it thy fertility that swelleth in the fruits of autumn? Why art thou moved with

Boethius: [Book Two] The Consolation of Philosophy empty transports? why embracest thou an alien excellence as thine own? Never will fortune make thine that which the nature of things has excluded from thy ownership. Doubtless the fruits of the earth are given for the sustenance of living creatures. But if thou art content to supply thy wants so far as suffices nature, there is no need to resort to fortune’s bounty. Nature is content with few things, and with a very little of these. If thou art minded to force superfluities upon her when she is satisfied, that which thou addest will prove either unpleasant or harmful. But, now, thou thinkest it fine to shine in raiment of divers colours; yet—if, indeed, there is any pleasure in the sight of such things—it is the texture or the artist’s skill which I shall admire. ‘Or perhaps it is a long train of servants that makes thee happy? Why, if they behave viciously, they are a ruinous burden to thy house, and exceeding dangerous to their own master; while if they are honest, how canst thou count other men’s virtue in the sum of thy possessions? From all which ’tis plainly proved that not one of these things which thou reckonest in the number of thy possessions is really thine. And if there is in them no beauty to be desired, why shouldst thou either grieve for their loss or find joy in their continued possession? While if they are beautiful in their own nature, what is that to thee? They would have been not less pleasing in themselves, though never in¬ cluded among thy possessions. For they de¬ rive not their preciousness from being counted in thy riches, but rather thou hast chosen to count them in thy riches because they seemed to thee precious. ‘Then, what seek ye by all this noisy out¬ cry about fortune? To chase away poverty, I ween, by means of abundance. And yet ye find the result just contrary. Why, this var¬ ied array of precious furniture needs more accessories for its protection; it is a true saying that they want most who possess most, and, conversely, they want very little who measure their abundance by nature’s

requirements, not by the superfluity of vain display. Have ye no good of your own im¬ planted within you, that ye seek your good in things external and separate? Is the na¬ ture of things so reversed that a creature di¬ vine by right of reason can in no other way be splendid in his own eyes save by the pos¬ session of lifeless chattels? Yet, while other things are content with their own, ye who in your intellect are God-like seek from the lowest of things adornment for a nature of supreme excellence, and perceive not how great a wrong ye do your Maker. His will was that mankind should excel all things on earth. Ye thrust down your worth beneath the lowest of things. For if that in which each thing finds its good is plainly more precious than that whose good it is, by your own estimation ye put yourselves below the vilest of things, when ye deem these vile things to be your good: nor does this fall out undeservedly. Indeed, man is so consti¬ tuted that he then only excels other things when he knows himself; but he is brought lower than the beasts if he lose this selfknowledge. For that other creatures should be ignorant of themselves is natural; in man it shows as a defect. How extravagant, then, is this error of yours, in thinking that any¬ thing can be embellished by adornments not its own. It cannot be. For if such acces¬ sories add any lustre, it is the accessories that get the praise, while that which they veil and cover remains in its pristine ugli¬ ness. And again I say. That is no good, which injures its possessor. Is this untrue? No, quite true, thou sayest. And yet riches have often hurt those that possessed them, since the worst of men, who are all the more cov¬ etous by reason of their wickedness, think none but themselves worthy to possess all the gold and gems the world contains. So thou, who now dreadest pike and sword, mightest have trolled a carol “in the rob¬ ber’s face,” hadst thou entered the road of life with empty pockets. Oh, wondrous blessedness of perishable wealth, whose ac¬ quisition robs thee of security!’

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Song 5

The Former Age Too blest the former age, their life Who in the fields contented led, And still, by luxury unspoiled. On frugal acorns sparely fed. No skill was theirs the luscious grape With honey’s sweeetness to confuse; Nor China’s soft and sheeny silks T’ empurple with brave Tyrian hues. The grass their wholesome couch, their drink The stream, their roof the pine’s tall shade; Not theirs to cleave the deep, nor seek In strange far lands the spoils of trade. The trump of war was heard not yet. Nor soiled the fields by bloodshed’s stain; For why should war’s fierce madness arm When strife brought wound, but brought not gain? Ah! would our hearts might still return To following in those ancient ways. Alas! the greed of getting glows More fierce than Etna’s fiery blaze. Woe, woe for him, whoe’er it was. Who first gold’s hidden store revealed. And—perilous treasure-trove—dug out The gems that fain would be concealed!

^ Chapter VI ^ ‘What now shall I say of rank and power, whereby,.because ye know not true power and dignity, ye hope to reach the sky? Yet, when rank and power have fallen to the worst of men, did ever an Etna, belching forth flame and fiery deluge, work such mis¬ chief? Verily, as I think, thou dost remem¬ ber how thine ancestors sought to abolish the consular power, which had been the foundation of their liberties, on account of the overweening pride of the consuls, and how for that self-same pride they had al¬

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ready abolished the kingly title! And if, as happens but rarely, these prerogatives are conferred on virtuous men, it is only the virtue of those who exercise them that pleases. So it appears that honour cometh not to virtue from rank, but to rank from virtue. Look, too, at the nature of that pow¬ er which ye find so attractive and glorious! Do ye never consider, ye creatures of earth, what ye are, and over whom ye exercise your fancied lordship? Suppose, now, that in the mouse tribe there should rise up one

Boethius: [Book Two] The Consolation of Philosophy claiming rights and powers for himself above the rest, would ye not laugh consumedly? Yet if thou lookest to his body alone, what creature canst thou find more feeble than man, who oftentimes is killed by the bite of a fly, or by some insect creeping into the inner passage of his system! Yet what rights can one exercise over another, save only as regards the body, and that which is lower than the body—I mean fortune? What! wilt thou bind with thy mandates the free spirit? Canst thou force from its due tranquillity the mind that is firmly com¬ posed by reason? A tyrant thought to drive a man of free birth to reveal his accomplices in a conspiracy, but the prisoner bit off his tongue and threw it into the furious tyrant’s face; thus, the tortures which the tyrant thought the instrument of his cruelty the sage made an opportunity for heroism. Moreover, what is there that one man can do to another which he himself may not have to undergo in his turn? We are told that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was himself slain by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had thrown into bonds many of the Car¬ thaginians whom he had taken in war; soon after he himself submitted his hands to the chains of the vanquished. Then, thinkest thou that man hath any power who cannot prevent another’s being able to do to him what he himself can do to others? ‘Besides, if there were any element of nat¬ ural and proper good in rank and power, they would never come to the utterly bad, since opposites are not wont to be associat¬ ed. Nature brooks not the union of contrar¬ ies. So, seeing there is no doubt that wicked

wretches are oftentimes set in high places, it is also clear that things which suffer associa¬ tion with the worst of men cannot be good in their own nature. Indeed, this judgment may with some reason be passed concern¬ ing all the gifts of fortune which fall so plen¬ tifully to all the most wicked. This ought also to be considered here, I think: No one doubts a man to be brave in whom he has observed a brave spirit residing. It is plain that one who is endowed with speed is swift¬ footed. So also music makes men musical, the healing art physicians, rhetoric public speakers. For each of these has naturally its own proper working; there is no confusion with the effects of contrary things—nay, even of itself it rejects what is incompatible. And yet wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed, nor has power ever made him master of himself whom vicious lusts kept bound in indissoluble fetters; dignity conferred on the wicked not only fails to make them wor¬ thy, but contrarily reveals and displays their unworthiness. Why does it so happen? Be¬ cause ye take pleasure in calling by false names things whose nature is quite incon¬ gruous thereto—by names which are easily proved false by the very effects of the things themselves; even so it is; these riches, that power, this dignity, are none of them rightly so called. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion concerning the whole sphere of Fortune, within which there is plainly noth¬ ing to be truly desired, nothing of intrinsic excellence; for she neither always joins her¬ self to the good, nor does she make good men of those to whom she is united.’

Song 6

Nero ’i Infamy We know what mischief dire he wrought— Rome fired, the Fathers slain— Whose hand with brother’s slaughter wet A mother’s blood did stain.

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No pitying tear his cheek bedewed, As on the corse he gazed; That mother’s beauty, once so fair, A critic’s voice appraised. Yet far and wide, from East to West, His sway the nations own; And scorching South and icy North Obey his will alone. Did, then, high power a curb impose On Nero’s phrenzied will? Ah, woe when to the evil heart Is joined the sword to kill!

^ Chapter VII Then said I: ‘Thou knowest thyself that ambition for worldly success hath but little swayed me. Yet I have desired opportunity for action, lest virtue, in default of exercise, should languish away.’ Then she; ‘This is that “last infirmity’’ which is able to allure minds which, though of noble quality, have not yet been moulded to any exquisite refinement by the perfect¬ ing of the virtues—I mean, the love of glo¬ ry—and fame for high services rendered to the commonweal. And yet consider with me how poor and unsubstantial a thing this glo¬ ry is! The whole of this earth’s globe, as thou hast learnt from the demonstration of astronomy, compared with the expanse of heaven, is found no bigger than a point; that is to say, if measured by the vastness of heaven’s sphere, it is held to occupy abso¬ lutely no space at all. Now, of this so insig¬ nificant portion of the universe, it is about a fourth part, as Ptolemy’s proofs have taught us, which is inhabited by living creatures known to us. If from this fourth part you take away in thought all that is usurped by seas and marshes, or lies a vast waste of waterless desert, barely is an exceeding nar¬ row area left for human habitation. You, then, who are shut in and prisoned in this merest fraction of a point’s space, do ye take thought for the blazoning of your fame, for the spreading abroad of your re¬

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nown? Why, what amplitude or magnifi¬ cence has glory when confined to such nar¬ row and petty limits? ‘Besides, the straitened bounds of this scant dwelling-place are inhabited by many nations differing widely in speech, in us¬ ages, in mode of life; to many of these, from the difficulty of travel, from diversities of speech, from want of commercial inter¬ course, the fame not only of individual men, but even of cities, is unable to reach. Why, in Cicero’s days, as he himself somewhere points out, the fame of the Roman Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus, and yet by that time her name had grown formida¬ ble to the Parthians and other nations of those parts. Seest thou, then, how narrow, how confined, is the glory ye take pains to spread abroad and extend! Can the fame of a single Roman penetrate where the glory of the Roman name fails to pass? Moreover, the customs and institutions of different races agree not together, so that what is deemed praiseworthy in one country is thought punishable in another. Wherefore, if any love the applause of fame, it shall not profit him to publish his name among many peoples. Then, each must be content to have the range of his glory limited to his own people; the splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a single race.

Boethius: [Book Two] The Consolation of Philosophy ‘Once more, how many of high renown in their own times have been lost in oblivion for want of a record! Indeed, of what avail are written records even, which, with their authors, are overtaken by the dimness of age after a somewhat longer time? But ye, when ye think on future fame, fancy it an immortality that ye are begetting for your¬ selves. Why, if thou scannest the infinite spaces of eternity, what room hast thou left for rejoicing in the durability of thy name? Verily, if a single moment’s space be com¬ pared with ten thousand years, it has a cer¬ tain relative duration, however little, since each period is definite. But this same num¬ ber of years—ay, and a number many times as great—cannot even be compared with endless duration; for, indeed, finite periods may in a sort be compared one with anoth¬ er, but a finite and an infinite never. So it comes to pass that fame, though it extend to ever so wide a space of years, if it be com¬ pared to never-lessening eternity, seems not short-lived merely, but altogether noth¬ ing. But as for you, ye know not how to act aright, unless it be to court the popular breeze, and win the empty applause of the multitude—nay, ye abandon the superlative worth of conscience and virtue, and ask a

recompense from the poor words of others. Let me tell thee how wittily one did mock the shallowness of this sort of arrogance. A certain man assailed one who had put on the name of philosopher as a cloak to pride and vain-glory, not for the practice of real virtue, and added: “Now shall I know if thou art a philosopher if thou bearest re¬ proaches calmly and patiently.” The other for awhile affected to be patient, and, hav¬ ing endured to be abused, cried out deri¬ sively: “Now, do you see that I am a philoso¬ pher? ’ The other, with biting sarcasm, retorted: “I should have hadst thou held thy peace.” Moreover, what concern have choice spirits—for it is of such men we speak, men who seek glory by virtue—what concern, I say, have these with fame after the dissolution of the body in death’s last hour? For if men die wholly—which our reasonings forbid us to believe—there is no such thing as glory at all, since he to whom the glory is said to belong is altogether non¬ existent. But if the mind, conscious of its own rectitude, is released from its earthly prison, and seeks heaven in free flight, doth it not despise all earthly things when it re¬ joices in its deliverance from earthly bonds, and enters upon the joys of heaven?’

Song 7

Glory May Not Last Oh, let him, who pants for glory’s guerdon. Deeming glory all in all. Look and see how wide the heaven expandeth. Earth’s enclosing bounds how small! Shame it is, if your proud-swelling glory May not fill this narrow room! Why, then, strive so vainly, oh, ye proud ones! To escape your mortal doom? Though your name, to distant regions bruited. O’er the earth be widely spread.

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Though full many a lofty-sounding title On your house its lustre shed, Death at all this pomp and glory spurneth When his hour draweth nigh, Shrouds alike th’ exalted and the humble. Levels lowest and most high. Where are now the bones of stanch Fabricius? Brutus, Cato—where are they? Lingering fame, with a few graven letters. Doth their empty name display. But to know the great dead is not given From a gilded name alone; Nay, ye all alike must lie forgotten, ’Tis not you that fame makes known. Fondly do ye deem life’s little hour Lengthened by fame’s mortal breath; There but waits you—when this, too, is taken— At the last a second death.

^Chapter VIII ‘But that thou mayst not think that I wage implacable warfare against Fortune, I own there is a time when the deceitful goddess serves men well—I mean when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and confesses her true character. Perhaps thou dost not yet grasp my meaning. Strange is the thing I am trying to express, and for this cause I can scarce find words to make clear my thought. For truly I believe that Ill Fortune is of more use to men than Good Fortune. For Good Fortune, when she wears the guise of happiness, and most seems to ca¬ ress, is always lying; Ill Fortune is always truthful, since, in changing, she shows her inconstancy. The one deceives, the other teaches; the one enchains the minds of those who enjoy her favour by the sem¬ blance of delusive good, the other delivers them by the knowledge of the frail nature of happiness. Accordingly, thou mayst see the

324

one fickle, shifting as the breeze, and ever self-deceived; the other sober-minded, alert, and wary, by reason of the very disci¬ pline of adversity. Finally, Good Fortune, by her allurements, draws men far from the true good; Ill Fortune ofttimes draws men back to true good with grappling-irons. Again, should it be esteemed a trifling boon, thinkest thou, that this cruel, this odi¬ ous Fortune hath discovered to thee the hearts of thy faithful friends—that other hid from thee alike the faces of the true friends and of the false, but in departing she hath taken away her friends, and left thee thine? What price wouldst thou not have given for this service in the fulness of thy prosperity when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate? Cease, then, to seek the wealth thou hast lost, since in true friends thou hast found the most precious of all riches.’

Song 8

Love Is Lord of All Why are Nature’s changes bound To a fixed and ordered round? What to leagued peace hath bent Every warring element? Wherefore doth the rosy morn Rise on Phoebus’ car upborne? Why should Phoebe rule the night, Led by Hesper’s guiding light? What the power that doth restrain In his place the restless main, That within fixed bounds he keeps. Nor o’er earth in deluge sweeps? Love it is that holds the chains. Love o’er sea and earth that reigns; Love—whom else but sovereign Love?— Love, high lord in heaven above! Yet should he his care remit. All that now so close is knit In sweet love and holy peace. Would no more from conflict cease. But with strife’s rude shock and jar All the world’s fair fabric mar. Tribes and nations Love unites By just treaty’s sacred rites; Wedlock’s bonds he sanctifies By affection’s softest ties. Love appointeth, as is due. Faithful laws to comrades true— Love, all-sovereign Love!—oh, then. Ye are blest, ye sons of men. If the love that rules the sky In your hearts is throned on high!

325

BOOK III

True Happiness and False

Chapter She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after a little I said: ‘Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for them with all vehemence.’ Then said she: ‘I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and intently, and I expected, or—to speak more truly—I my¬ self brought about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that to the taste indeed it is biting, but when

received within it turns to sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing, with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither it is my task to lead theel’ ‘Whither?’ said I. ‘To true felicity,’ said she, ‘which even now thy spirit sees in dreams, but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with semblances.’ Then said I: ‘I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without a mo¬ ment’s loss.’ ‘Gladly will I, for thy sake,’ said she. ‘But first I will try to sketch in words, and de¬ scribe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that, when thou hast viewed this care¬ fully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.’

Song 1

The Thoms of Error Who fain would sow the fallow field. And see the growing corn. Must first remove the useless weeds. The bramble and the thorn. After ill savour, honey’s taste Is to the mouth more sweet; After the storm, the twinkling stars The eyes more cheerly greet. When night hath past, the bright dawn comes. In car of rosy hue; So drive the false bliss from thy mind. And thou shalt see the true.

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Chapter II For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were, into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began: ‘All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach one goal—the goal of happiness. Now, the good is that which, when a man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. ’Tis clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try to at¬ tain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to want for nothing, spare no pains to attain afflu¬ ence; others, judging the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these either wish themselves to en¬ joy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the height of happi¬ ness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these—for instance, noble

birth and popularity, which seem to com¬ pass a certain renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are entered upon for the sake of pow¬ er or of enjoyment. And as for bodily excel¬ lences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above. For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that the only object sought for in all these ways is happiness. For that which each seeks in pref¬ erence to all else, that is in his judgment the supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness. Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is in his judgment happy. ‘Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human happi¬ ness—wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency con¬ cluded the highest good to be pleasure, be¬ cause all the other objects seem to bring some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims: man’s mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to re¬ turn home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay, truly there is nothing which can so well complete happi¬ ness as a state abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to be also best de¬ serving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all. That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the endea¬ vours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of strength? Or is renown to be thought of no 327

Great Books Library account? Nay, it cannot be ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the pos¬ session and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank.

sovereignty, glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart. Therefore, it is the good which men seek by such divers courses; and herein is easily shown the might of Nature s power, since, although opinions are so vari¬ ous and discordant, yet they agree in cher¬ ishing good as the end.’

Song 2

The Bent of Nature How the might of Nature sways All the world in ordered ways. How resistless laws control Each least portion of the whole— Fain would I in sounding verse On my pliant strings rehearse. Lo, the lion captive ta’en Meekly wears his gilded chain; Yet though he by hand be fed. Though a master’s whip he dread, If but once the taste of gore Whet his cruel lips once more. Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes. With one roar his bonds he breaks. And first wreaks his vengeful force On his trainer’s mangled corse. And the woodland songster, pent In forlorn imprisonment. Though a mistress’ lavish care Store of honeyed sweets prepare; Yet, if in his narrow cage. As he hops from bar to bar. He should spy the woods afar. Cool with sheltering foliage. All these dainties he will spurn. To the woods his heart will turn; Only for the woods he longs. Pipes the woods in all his songs. To rude force the sapling bends. While the hand its pressure lends; If the hand its pressure slack. Straight the supple wood springs back.

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Phoebus in the western main Sinks; but swift his car again By a secret path is borne To the wonted gates of morn. Thus are all things seen to yearn In due time for due return; And no order fixed may stay, Save which in th’ appointed way Joins the end to the beginning In a steady cycle spinning.

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Authors in Great Books of the Western World

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Homer

Nicomachus

Aeschylus

Ptolemy

Sophocles

Marcus Aurelius

Herodotus

Galen

Euripides

Plotinus

Thucydides

Augustine

Hippocrates

Thomas Aquinas

Aristophanes

Dante

Plato

Chaucer

Aristotle

Machiavelli

Euclid

Copernicus

Archimedes

Rabelais

Apollonius

Montaigne

Lucretius

Gilbert

Virgil

Cervantes

Plutarch

Francis Bacon

Tacitus

Galileo

Epictetus

Shakespeare Kepler

■

■■

■yi'' X V

Harvey

Boswell

Hobbes

Lavoisier

Descartes

John Jay

Milton

Goethe

Pascal

James Madison

Huygens

Alexander Hamilton

Locke

Fourier

Spinoza

Hegel

Newton

Faraday

Swift

J. S. Mill

Berkeley

Darwin

Montesquieu

Marx

Fielding

Melville

Hume

Engels

Rousseau

Dostoevsky

Sterne

Tolstoy

Adam Smith

William James

Kant

Freud

Gibbon

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