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In the days when the Goths out of the land of Scythia has raised way against the Roman empire and under the kinds Rædgod and Alaric had stormed Rome, and won all the realm of Italy from the mountains even to the island of Sicily, then, after those kings, did Theodoric hold the same empire in sway. Theodoric was an Arruling and a Christian, though he held fast to the Arian heresy. To the Romans he promised his friendship, and that they should keep their old rights; but he kept that promise very basely, and his end was grievous and full of sin, in that his countless crimes were increased by the murder of Pope John. At that time there lived a consul, a chief we should now call him, whose name was Boethius, a man of book-learning and in worldly life most truly wise. He, perceiving the manifold wrongs wrought by Theodoric upon the Christian faith and upon the chief man of the Romans, began to recall the glad times and immemorial rights they had once enjoyed under the Caesars, their ancient lords. And so meditating, he began to muse and cast about within himself how he might wrest the sovereignty from the unrighteous king and restore it to them of the true faith and of righteous life. Wherefore, sending word privily to the Caesar at Constantinople, the chief city of the Greeks and the seat of their kings, because this Caesar was of the kin of the ancient lords of the Romans, he prayed him to help them back to their Christian faith and their old laws. But cruel king Theodoric heard of these designs, and straightway commanded that Boethius be thrust into a dungeon and kept fast therein. How when this good man fell into so great straits he waxed sore of mind, by so much the more that he had once known happier days. In the prison he could find no comfort; falling down, grovelling on his face he by sorrowing on the floor, in deep despair, and began to weep over himself, and to sing, and this was his song:

Then said Boethius, ‘O Philosophy, thou that art the mother of all virtues, I cannot gainsay thee nor deny what thou wast saying to me just now, for it is all true. I understand now that my happiness and the prosperity which I erstwhile accounted happiness are not such, seeing that they so speedily depart. What troubles me most when I ponder the matter narrowly is my firm persuasion that the greatest unhappiness in this present life is for a man to have happiness, and then to lose it.’

Then answered Philosophy, that is to say Reason, ‘Of a truth thou shouldst not blame thy fate and thy prosperity, as thou art minded to do, for the loss of false joys that thou art suffering, because thou art wrong in thinking thyself unhappy. But if it be the loss of fancied joys that hath thus troubled and saddened thee I can clearly prove to thee that thou still hast the greater part of the happiness that once was thine. Tell me now, canst thou with justice bewail thy misfortune, as if good fortune had utterly forsaken thee? Why, thou hast still the most precious part of all that thou didst hold most worth having. How then canst thou bewail the worse and more harmful part, having kept the more precious? Come, thou knowest that the flower of mankind and the greatest honour to thyself is still living, even thy wife’s father, Symmachus. He is yet hale and hearty, and hath enough of all good things, and I know that thou wouldst not stick to lay down thy life for him, if thou wert to see him in any danger, for the man is full of wisdom and goodly parts, and free enough from all earthly cares, albeit he is much grieved for thy hardships and thy captivity. Is not thy wife also living, daughter of this same Symmachus, a virtuous and modest lady, beyond all women in chastity? All the good in her I may sum up in a word: that in all her ways she is her father’s daughter. For thee she lives, for thee alone, as she loves nothing else but thee; every blessing of this life is hers, but all hath she scorned for thy sake, refusing all, not having thee; that is her only want. By reason of thine absence all that she hath seems naught to her, for in her great love for thee she is in despair and well-nigh dead with weeping and sorrow. Again, let us take thy two sons. They are magistrates and senators; in them are manifest the gifts and virtues of their father and of their forefathers, as far as young men may resemble their elders. Therefore I wonder that thou canst not understand that thou art still very fortunate, being alive and in good health. Surely to be alive and well is the greatest gift mortal man may have, and besides this thou hast all those gifts that I have just told over thee. Indeed, these are even more precious to a man than life itself; for many a man would rather die himself than see his wife and children die. Why then art thou disposed to weep without cause? As yet thou canst not in aught reproach thy fate, nor put the blame upon thy life; nor art thou, as thou thinkest, utterly undone. No unbearable affliction hath yet befallen thee, for thine anchor is still fast in the ground, those noblemen, I mean, that we were speaking of. They will not suffer thee to despair of this present life; and furthermore, thine own faith and the divine love and hope, these three will not suffer thee to despair of the life eternal.’

To this the sorrowing Mind made answer, saying, ‘Oh, would that the anchors were as fast and enduring, in respect of God and of the world, as thou sayest! Then could I far more easily bear such adversities as might befall me, for they all seem lighter as long as the anchors hold. But nevertheless thou mayest perceive how my happiness and worldly honour are changed.’

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Then answered Philosophy, that is Reason, and said, ‘Indeed I thought to have raised thee somewhat from thy sadness, and almost restored thee to the same position that thou once hadst, but thou art even yet too sated with that which is left thee, and therefore thou art filled with loathing. Yet I cannot suffer thy lamentation for the little thou hast lost; for ever with weeping and dolour thou art complaining if thou failest to get anything on which thy desire is set, however small it be. What man ever lived in this life or shall live after us in this world, and nothing cross his will, whether little or great? Very narrow and very paltry is human happiness, for either it cometh not to any man, or abideth not steadily with him such as it was when it came; this I will show more clearly later on.

‘We know that many have worldly riches enough, but they are ashamed of their wealth if they are not as well born as they would desire. Some again are noble and famous from their high birth, but they are oppressed and saddened by their base estate and their poverty, so that they would rather be of mean birth than so poor, were it but in their power. Many are both well born and well endowed, yet are joyless, being wedded to an ill-matched or unpleasing wife. Many are happy enough in their marriage, but being childless must leave all the wealth they amass to strangers to enjoy, and therefore they are sad. Some have children enough, but these are perhaps weakly, or wicked and ignoble, or they die young, so that their parents sorrow for them all their days. Therefore no man may in this present life altogether stand with Fate; for even if he have nothing now to grieve about, yet he may grieve not to know what his future will be, whether good or evil, even as thou also didst not know; and moreover, that which he enjoys so happily while he hath it, he dreads to lose. Show me, I pray thee, the man who to thy mind is most happy, and who is most give over to self-indulgence; I will soon cause thee to see that he is often exceedingly put out by the veriest trifles if anything, however slight, thwart his will or his habits, unless he can beckon every one to run at his bidding. A very little thing may make the happiest of men in this world believe his happiness to be impaired or altogether lost. Thou art thinking now, for instance, that thou art very unhappy, and yet I know that many a man would fancy himself raised up to heaven if he had any part of the happiness which is still remaining to thee. Why, the place where thou art now imprisoned, and which thou callest exile, is a home to them that were born there, and also to them that live in it by choice. Nothing is bad, unless a man think it bad; and though it be hard to bear and adverse, yet is it happiness if a man does it cheerfully and bears it with patience. Few are so wise as not to wish in their impatience that their fortune may be changed. With the sweets of this world much bitterness is mingled; though they seem desirable, yet a man cannot keep them, once they begin to flee from him. Is it not then plain that worldly happiness is a poor thing? It is unable to satisfy poor man, who ever desireth what he hath not at the time, and even with men of patience and of sober life it will never long abide.

‘Why then do ye seek outside yourselves the happiness ye have planted within you by the divine power? But ye know not what ye do, being in error. I will show you in a few words what is the pinnacle of all happiness; towards which I know that thou, O Mind, wilt hasten before even thou perceivest it; it is Goodness. What is more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing, I think thou wilt say. Well I know that if thou hadst full governance of thyself thou wouldst have something within thee which thou wouldst never willingly give up, and which Fate could not wrest from thee. Let me remind thee that there is in this present life no other happiness but Wisdom, for nothing can make men lost it; and that possession which can never be lost is better than that which can, and some day must. Is it not now quite clearly proven that Fate can give thee no happiness? For both Fate and Happiness are inconstant, and therefore these joys are very frail and very perishable. Now every man that possesses these joys either knows that they will depart from him, or he does not know it. If he knows it not, what happiness hath he in his prosperity, knowing full well that he must forfeit it. Continual fear, too, prevents him from being happy. If then anyone care not whether he have it or have it not, why, that must be little or no happiness, when a man can so easily part from it. Methinks I have before this proved to thee clearly enough, by many tokens, that human souls are immortal and everlasting, and it is plain enough that no man need doubt but that death is the end of all men, and of their riches also. Therefore I marvel why men are so unreasonable as to think this present life can make a man happy while he lives, when it cannot make him miserable hereafter. Indeed, we know of many and many a man that hath sought eternal happiness not merely by seeking the death of the body, but by desiring many most grievous tortures, so that he might win eternal life; of such were all the holy martyrs.’

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Then Philosophy began to chaunt a law, and sang thus; she added song to her discourse, and these were her words: ‘He that would build a house to last must not place it high on the hilltop; and he that desireth Divine Wisdom cannot find it with pride. Again, he that would built an enduring habitation should not sat it on sandhills. So also, if thou will build up Wisdom, base it not on covetousness, for as the crumbling sand drinketh up the rain, so covetousness swalloweth up the fleeting goods of this earth, being ever athirst for them. No house may stand for long on a high hill if a very mighty wind assail it; nor again one that is built on crumbling sand, by reason of the heavy rains. So too the soul of men is undermined and moved from its place when the wind of sore hardship assaileth it, or the rain of excessive anxiety. Whoever would seek eternal happiness must flee from the perilous beauty of this earth, and build the house of his mind upon the firm rock of humility, for Christ dwelleth in the Valley of Humility, and in the memory of Wisdom. Therefore it is that the wise man spendeth all his life in joy unchangeable and freedom from care, despising these earthly delights and those that are evil, and putting his hope in the joys to come, that are eternal. For God encompasseth him on every side, living as he doth ever in the joys of the soul, though the wind of adversity blow against him, and the ceaseless care begotten of worldly pleasures.’

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Having sung this lay, Philosophy, that is, Reason, took up once more her argument, and spake on this wise: ‘Methinks that we may now speak in more searching and darker words, for I perceive that my teaching is in some measure penetrating thy mind, and thou understandest well enough what I say to thee. Consider, therefore, how much of all these worldly possessions and riches is thine own, and which of them when closely considered cannot be replaced? What profit hast thou from the gifts that Fate, as thou sayest, giveth thee, and from wealth, even if they last for ever? Tell me, is it thou that givest value to thy wealth, or is it valuable in its own nature? No matter, I tell thee that it is so by its own nature, not by thine. If so, how art thou in any respect the better for that wherein it is good? Tell me now what thou accountest most precious; is it gold, or what is it? Gold, I doubt not. But though this be at present good and valuable, yet he is more delightful and beloved that bestows it than he that hoards it and takes it from others. Likewise wealth is more popular and delightful when given away than when hoarded and kept. Now, covetousness makes the covetous hateful both to God and to man, while virtue makes its possessor beloved, praised, and respected of God, and of those men who cherish it. Since the same thing cannot be his that giveth it and his to whom it is given, therefore it is better and more precious when given than when withheld. If then all the riches of this world were to fall into the hands of one man, would not all other men be poor? Surely good report and good esteem are for every man better and more precious than any wealth; for behold, the report filleth the ears of all who hear it, yet he who speaketh it suffereth no loss. It revealeth the secrets of his own heart and passeth into the recesses of that of his hearer, and on the journey between them it groweth not less; no man can slay it with the sword, nor bind it with cords, and it never dieth. But of your riches, though they be ever with you, ye have never sufficient, and, though ye give them to other man, ye cannot any the more satisfy their poverty and their greed. Though thou divide them fine as dust, thou canst not satisfy all men alike with them, and when thou hast divided them thou remainest poor thyself. The riches of this world are paltry things, as no man can have enough of them, nor be enriched by them, without making some other man poor. Tell me, does the beauty of gems attract your eyes to marvel at them? Surely, I know it does. Now this quality of beauty in them is theirs, and not yours. Therefore I am greatly astonished how ye men think the beautiful substance of such senseless things better than your own good qualities, and how ye can admire gems or any other perishable thing that hath not sense; for on no grounds can they deserve your admiration. Though they are God’s creatures, yet they not to be compared with you, for a thing is either not good compared with you, or at any rate of small excellence. We debase ourselves too much when we love what is subject to us more than we love ourselves, or the Lord who created us and gave us all good things. Now, does it please thee to behold a fair country-side?’

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Then the Mind answered Philosophy and said, ‘Why should I not be pleased to behold a fair country-side? Is it not the fairest part of God’s creation? Ofttimes we admire the calm ocean and marvel at the beauty of sun and moon and all the stars.’

Thereupon Philosophy, that is Reason, answered Mind: ‘But what hast thou to do with their beauty? Darest thou boast it to be from thee? Nay, not at all. Thou knowest that none of these things is thy handiwork; but, if thou must glory, glory in God. Dost thou take pleasure in fair flowers in the spring, as if thou wert their creator? Couldst thou create any such thing, or maintain it when it is created? Nay, by no means. Make not then any such attempt. Art thou the cause that autumn is so rich in fruits? Do I not know thou art not? Why then art thou aglow with such vain pleasure, why so immoderate in thy delight in things not thine, as if they were truly thine own? Dost thou think Fate can cause those things to belong to thee that their own nature makes alien to thee? Nay, indeed, it is not thy nature to possess them, nor is it their obligation to obey thee. But heavenly things naturally belong to thee, not earthly ones. Now these fruits of the earth were created for the subsistence of beasts of the field, and riches were created to delude those men who are like unto the beasts, to wit, the unrighteous and intemperate; to such men riches come oftenest. If therefore thou wouldst know what is due measure and what is needful, I tell thee it is meat and drink and clothes, and implements wherewith to exercise the powers thou hast, and that are natural to thee, and that may be rightly used. What profit is there for thee to crave beyond measure the riches of this life, when they can help neither thee nor themselves? Very little of them is enough for our natural wants, even such as we have above mentioned. If thou have more of them, either it worketh thee harm, or it is unpleasant to thee, or noisome or dangerous, whatever thou dost in excess. For example, if thou eat or drink in excess, or wear more clothes than thou art in need of, this superfluity brings grief to thee, or loathing, or perhaps mischance and danger. If thou deemest stupid that splendid raiment is any honour, then I account the honour his who made it, and not thine; and as God is the maker, it is His skill I praise therein. Or dost thou think the number of thy followers renders thee honourable? No, indeed; for if they be wicked and deceitful, then are they more dangerous and troublesome than out of it, for bad servants are ever their master’s foes. Supposing, however, they are good and loyal and true men, is not this to their advantage rather than thine? How canst thou then claim the advantage that belongs to them, since in boasting of it dost thou not boast of what is theirs, not thine own? It is now clear enough that none of the blessings we have been speaking of, and which thou deemdst thine, really belong to thee. If then the beauty and wealth of this world are not desirable, why dost thou repine after that which thou hast lost, or why regret that which was once thine? If it is beautiful, that is by virtue of its own nature, not of thine; its beauty is its own, not thine. Why dost thou regret a beauty that is not thine? Wilt thou take delight in what concerns thee not, and which thou hast not created nor dost possess? These things are good and desirable, for so they are created, and would be so even if thou never hast them for thine own. Surely thou dost not believe they are the more precious for being lent to thee for thy use? Nay, it is simply because foolish men marvel at riches and prize them that thou gatherest them together and storest them up in thine hoard. What profit hast thou then from such happiness as this? Believe me when I tell thee thou hast none; but, seeking to escape poverty, thou dost put by more than is needful for thee. Nevertheless I doubt not that all I am saying in this matter accordeth not with thy wish. Your blessings are not what ye men account them to be, for he that would possess great and varied estate needeth much help to carry it. The old saw is very true that was said by the ancients, that they need much who will have much, and their need is little who are content with enough. Nevertheless men would fain glut their avarice with superfluity, but to this they can never attain. Ye believe, I am sure, that ye have no natural good nor blessing within you, inasmuch as ye seek these in other creatures without. ’Tis a crooked wisdom to think that man, though of a godlike understanding, hath in himself no sufficiency of happiness, but must gather together more of the creatures of no understanding than he needeth or is fitting. The unreasoning beasts of the field desire no other possession, but are satisfied with the content of their own hides, together with their natural food. And lo! ye have something divine in your souls, even Reason and Memory, and the discerning Will to choose. He therefore that hath these three hath his Creator’s likeness, in so far as any creature may have it. But ye look for the blessings and glory of a higher nature in the lower things that perish, not discerning how grievously ye offend God your Maker, who would that all men were lords of all other creatures. Nay rather, ye make your chiefest excellence subject to the most lowly of created things, declaring that by your own free judgement ye rank yourselves below your own chattels, thinking as ye do that your happiness lies in false wealth, and that all your possessions are of more value than yourselves. And so they are as long as ye wish it to be so.

‘The nature of men is that they surpass all other creatures only in that they know what they are and whence they came; but they are lower than the beasts in that their will holdeth not with their knowledge. The nature of beasts is to have no knowledge of themselves, but in man it is a blemish not to have self-knowledge. Now thou dost plainly perceive that men err in thinking any man may be held in honour for wealth, and ennobled for his rich possessions, doth not the honour belong to him that bestoweth it, and is he not more rightly to be praised? None the fairer is that which is adorned from without, howsoever fair the adornment wherein it is dressed, and if it was before foul it is none the fairer thereby. On the contrary, no good thing hurteth a man. Lo, thou knowest I lie not, and also the riches oft harm their owners in many ways, and especially in the puffing up of a man, so that many a time the worst and most unworthy of all cometh to think himself worthy to have all the wealth in the world, if he could only get it. He that hath much wealth dreadeth many foes; if he had nothing, no need would there be for him to fear any one. If thou wert a traveller, and hadst much gold on thee, and wert to fall among a company of robbers, why, thou wouldst despair of thy life; whereas, if thou hadst nothing about thee, thou wouldst need to fear naught, but couldst go thy way singing the old verse that was sung of yore, that the naked wayfarer hath naught to dread.’ Being then free of care, and the robbers departed, thou couldst mock at wealth, saying, “Verily a fine and pleasant thing is it to have great riches when he that hath them hath no peace.”’

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When Philosophy had spoken this speech, she began to sing, and said, ‘Ah, how blessed was the former age of the world, when each man was content with what the earth yielded! No splendid mansions were there then; no varied dainties nor drinks; nor did men covet costly apparel, for as yet these things were not; neither were they seen nor heard of. Men cared not for any wicked pleasure, but followed the path of nature in strict measure. They ate but once in the day, and that was towards the evening. The fruits of the tree they ate, and roots; they drank no wine unmixed, nor knew to mingle honey with their drink, nor desired silken raiment of various hues. Always they slept out of doors in the shade of the trees; pure spring water was their drink. No merchant had gazed on strand nor island, and no man had heard the tale of the pirate host, nor even of any fighting whatever. Not yet was earth defiled with the blood of the slain, nor had a men been wounded. Evil men had not been seen as yet; no honour had such then, no love. Alas, that our age cannot become as that was! In these days the greed of men burneth like the fire of hell that is in the mountain called Etna, in the isle of Sicily. This mountain is ever on fire with brimstone, consuming all the countries round about. Alas, who was the first covetous man that began to dig in the ground for gold, and for gems, and brought to light precious things up to that time hidden and covered by the earth?’

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