Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty’s defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.’
For, indeed, the echoes of Boethius, Boethius, rang out loud from every corner of European Literature. An Alfred awoke them in England, a Chaucer, a Caxton would not let them die; an Elizabeth revived them among the glorious music of her reign.[1] To us, though far off, they come with a sweet sound. ‘The angelic’ Thomas Aquinas commented on him, and many others followed the saint’s steps. Dante read him, though, strange to say, he speaks of the Consolation as ‘a book not known by many.’[2] Belgium had her translations—both Flemish[3] and French[4]; Germany hers,[5] France hers,[6] Italy hers.[7] The Latin editors are too numerous to be catalogued here, and manuscripts abound in all our great libraries.
No philosopher was so bone of the bone and flesh of the flesh of Middle-age writers as Boethius. Take up what writer you will, and you find not only the sentiments, but the very words of the distinguished old Roman. And surely we who read him in Chaucer’s tongue, will not refuse to say that his full-circling meed of glory was other than deserved. Nor can we marvel that at the end of our great poet’s life, he was glad that he had swelled the chorus of Boethius’ praise; and ‘of the translacioun of Boece de Consolacioun,’ thanked ‘oure Lord Ihesu Crist and his moder, and alle the seintes in heuen.’
The impression made by Boethius on Chaucer was evidently very deep. Not only did he translate him directly, as in the present work, but he read his beloved original over and over again, as witness the following list, incomplete of course, of passages from Chaucer’s poems translated more or less literally from the De Consolatione:
I. LOVE.
Wost thou nat wel the olde clerkes sawe,
That who schal yeve a lover eny lawe,