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Columbia University

STUDIES IN COMPARATIVE LITERATURE

PLATONISM IN ENGLISH POETRY

OF THE SIXTEENTH AND

SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES

PLATONISM IN ENGLISH POETRY
OF THE SIXTEENTH AND
SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES

BY

JOHN SMITH HARRISON

New York

THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, Agents

LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

1903

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1903,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up, electrotyped, and published September, 1903.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.

TO

My Father and My Mother

PREFACE

This essay was presented as a dissertation for the doctorate in Columbia University. It attempts to explain the nature of the influence of Platonism upon English poetry of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, exclusive of the drama. Its method is purely critical. It has not attempted to treat the subject from the standpoint of the individual poet, but has tried to interpret the whole body of English poetry of the period under survey as an integral output of the spiritual thought and life of the time.

In its interpretation of this body of poetry the essay has aimed to see Platonism in its true historical perspective, as it must have been understood by the poets, either as a system of philosophic thought held consciously in the mind, or as a more intimate possession of the spirit in its outlook upon life. The idea of Platonism which these poets had was that which Ficino had made known to Italy of the fifteenth century, and from Italy to the rest of Europe. Ficino saw Plato through two more or less refracting media. To him Plato was the “divine Plato,” the importance of whose work lay in its subtle affinity for the forms of Christian thought. He thus Christianized Plato’s philosophy. But this body of thought was that peculiar product resulting from the study of Plato’s “Dialogues” in the light of what latter-day criticism has named Neo-platonism, or that new form of Platonic philosophy which is expounded in the “Enneads” of Plotinus. But more than this. Ficino endeavored to reform the practice of love by the application of the Platonic doctrine of love and beauty to the lover’s passion. From his “Commentarium in Convivium,” which he translated into Italian, originate the various discussions of love and beauty from the Platonic standpoint which were carried on in dialogues and manuals of court etiquette throughout the sixteenth century. In this essay, consequently, reference has been made to Ficino’s “Commentarium” on the points involved in the theory of love and beauty. The translations have been made directly from the Latin version of the commentary. On the more metaphysical side of Platonism the “Enneads” of Plotinus have been accepted as representative. The translation on page [77] is taken from Mr. Bigg’s “Neo-Platonism,” and those on pages [153], [154], [155] are from Thomas Taylor’s translation noted in the bibliography. In interpreting the “Enneads” I have accepted the explanation of his system by Mr. Whittaker in “The Neo-Platonists.” All the quotations from Plato’s “Dialogues” are from Jowett’s translation. In quoting from the poets the texts of the editions noted in the bibliography have been followed in details of spelling, punctuation, and the like.

In the preparation of the work hardly anything of a critical nature was found serviceable. In the notes to the works of the individual poets several detached references are to be gratefully mentioned, but no general appreciation of the part Platonism played in the work of the English poets was at hand. Mr. Fletcher’s article on the “Précieuses at the Court of Charles I,” in the second number of the “Journal of Comparative Literature,” appeared after this essay had gone to the printer.

I should like to acknowledge my thanks to Mr. W. H. Heck for his service of transcription in the British Museum Library and to Miss M. P. Conant for a similar kindness in research work in the Harvard College Library. To Professor George Edward Woodberry I am most deeply grateful for innumerable suggestions and invaluable advice. The work was undertaken at his suggestion, and throughout the past two years has progressed under his kindly criticism. But the help and inspiration which I have received from him antedate the inception of the essay, extending back to the earlier days of undergraduate life. The work is thus inseparably connected with the training in the study of literature which he has given, and his help in its completion is only an episode in a long series of kindnesses which he has been ever willing to show.

Orange, N.J.,

June 1, 1903.

CONTENTS

PLATONISM IN ENGLISH POETRY

CHAPTER I
Ideals of Christian Virtues

I. HOLINESS

The fundamental doctrine of Platonism as it was understood throughout the period of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was the reality of a heavenly beauty known in and by the soul, as contrasted with an earthly beauty known only to the sense. In this the Christian philosophic mind found the basis for its conception of holiness. Christian discipline and Platonic idealism blended in the “Faerie Queene” in the legend of the Red Cross Knight.

The underlying idea taught by Spenser in the first book is that holiness is a state of the soul in which wisdom or truth can be seen and loved in and for its beauty. In the allegorical scheme of his work Una stands for the Platonic wisdom, σοφία, or ἀρετή, and a sight of her in her native beauty constitutes the happy ending of the many struggles and perplexities that the Red Cross Knight experiences in his pursuit of holiness. The identification of Una with the Platonic idea of truth or wisdom is not merely a matter of inference left for the reader to draw; for Spenser himself is careful to inform us of the true nature of the part she plays in his allegory. Una is presented as teaching the satyrs truth and “trew sacred lore.” (I. vi. 19; I. vi. 30.) When the lion, amazed at her sight, forgets his fierceness, Spenser comments:

“O how can beautie maister the most strong,

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong?”

(I. iii. 6.)

When Una summons Arthur to the rescue of the Red Cross Knight from the Giant and the Dragon, Spenser opens his canto with a reflection on the guiding power of grace and truth amid the many perils of human life:

“Ay me, how many perils doe enfold

The righteous man, to make him daily fall?

Were not, that heavenly grace doth him uphold,

And stedfast truth acquite him out of all.

Her love is firme, her care continuall,

So oft as he through his owne foolish pride,

Or weaknesse is to sinfull bands made thrall.”

(I. viii. 1.)

Here Arthur is meant by grace and Una by truth. In accordance with the same conception of Una’s nature Satyrane is made to wonder

“at her wisedome heavenly rare,

Whose like in womens wit he never knew;

· · · · ·

Thenceforth he kept her goodly company,

And learnd her discipline of faith and veritie.”

(I. vi. 31.)

Furthermore, she is represented as guiding the Red Cross Knight to Fidelia’s school, where he is to taste her “heavenly learning,” to hear the wisdom of her divine words, and to learn “celestiall discipline.” (I. x. 18.) In making these comments and in thus directing the course of the action of his poem Spenser presents in Una the personification of truth or wisdom.

But he does more than this; he presents her not only as wisdom, but as true beauty. Spenser is so thoroughly convinced of the truth of that fundamental idea of Platonic ethics, that truth and beauty are identical, that he shows their union in the character of Una, in whom, as her name signifies, they are one. Plato had taught that the highest beauty which the soul can know is wisdom, which, though invisible to sight, would inflame the hearts of men in an unwonted degree could there be a visible image of her. In his “Phædrus” he had stated that “sight is the most piercing of our bodily senses; though not by that is wisdom seen; her loveliness would have been transporting if there had been a visible image of her.” (250.) Convinced, as Spenser was, of the spiritual nature of the beauty of wisdom, he carefully avoids dwelling upon any detail of Una’s physical beauty. The poetic form of allegory, through which his ideas were to be conveyed, required the personification of truth, and the romantic character of chivalry demanded that his Knight should have a lady to protect. The progress of the action of the poem, moreover, made necessary some reference to the details of Una’s form and feature. (Cf. I. iii. 4–6; vi. 9.) But in no instance where the physical form of Una is brought to notice is there any trace of the poet’s desire to concentrate attention upon her physical charms. In this respect Una stands distinctly apart from all his other heroines, and especially Belphœbe. And yet Spenser has taken the greatest care to show that the source of Una’s influence over those that come into her presence lies in the power exerted by her beauty; but this is the beauty of her whole nature, a penetrating radiance of light revealing the soul that is truly wise. Indeed, when Spenser has the best of opportunities to describe Una, after she has laid aside the black stole that hides her features, he contents himself with a few lines, testifying only to their radiant brilliancy:

“Her angels face

As the great eye of heaven shyned bright,

And made a sunshine in the shadie place.”

(I. iii. 4.)

In other instances he directs our attention to the power which the mere sight of her has upon the beholder. Her beauty can tame the raging lion and turn a ravenous beast into a strong body-guard who finds his duty in the light of her fair eyes:

“It fortuned out of the thickest wood

A ramping Lyon rushed suddainly,

Hunting full greedie after salvage blood;

Soone as the toy all virgin he did spy,

With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,

To have attonce devour’d her tender corse:

But to the pray when as he drew more ny,

His bloudie rage asswaged with remorse,

And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse.”

(I. iii. 5.)

“The Lyon would not leave her desolate,

· · · · ·

From her faire eyes he tooke commaundement,

And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.”

(I. iii. 9.)

The wild-wood gods stand astonished at her beauty, and in their wonder pity her desolate condition. (I. vi. 9–12.) Old Sylvanus is smitten by a sight of her. In her presence he doubts the purity of his own Dryope’s fairness; sometimes he thinks her Venus, but then on further reflection he recalls that Venus never had so sober mood; her image calls to mind—

“His ancient love, and dearest Cyparisse,

· · · · ·

How fair he was, and yet not faire to this.”

(I. vi. 17.)

To behold her lovely face the wood nymphs flock about and when they have seen it, they flee away in envious fear, lest the contrast of its beauty may disgrace their own. (I. vi. 18.)

By these dramatic touches Spenser very skilfully suggests to his reader the high nature of Una’s beauty. It has a power to win its way upon the brute creation, and it has a severity and radiance that set it off from the beauty of physical form possessed by the wood nymphs and even by the great goddess of love, Venus.

The most important consideration that bears upon the question of Una’s beauty is found in the method which Spenser has used to indicate how the Red Cross Knight attains to a knowledge of it. One reason why the people of the wood, the nymphs, the fauns, and the satyrs, were permitted to see the celestial beauty of Una unveiled lay in the fact that through their experiences a means was provided by the poet to quicken the imagination into a sense of its pure nature. But the Knight, though he had journeyed with her throughout a great portion of her “wearie journey,” had never been able to see her face in its native splendor, hidden, as it had always been, from his sight by the black veil which Una wore. The deep conceit which Spenser here uses points in the direction of Platonism; for there it was taught that wisdom could be seen only by the soul. This is a fundamental truth, present everywhere in Plato, in the vision of beauty that rises before the mind at the end of the dialectic of the “Symposium,” in the species of divine fury that accompanies the recollection of the ideal world in the presence of a beautiful object, as analyzed in the “Phædrus,” and in the “Hymn of the Dialectic” in the “Republic” by which the soul rises to a sight of the good. (VII. 532.) In the “Phædo” the function of philosophy is explained to lie in the exercise by the soul of this power of spiritual contemplation of true existence. (82, 83.) In Spenser this conception is further illustrated by the part which the schooling, received by the Red Cross Knight on the Mount of Contemplation, played in the perfection of his mental vision. Up to the time when the Knight comes to the Mount he is, as the aged sire says, a “man of earth,” and his spirit needs to be purified of all the grossness of sense. (I. x. 52.) When this has been accomplished, the Knight is prepared to

“see the way,

That never yet was seene of Faeries sonne.”

(I. x. 52.)

While on this Mount he is initiated into a knowledge of the glories of the Heavenly Jerusalem, and through this experience he is made aware of the relative insignificance of that beauty which he had thought the greatest to be known on earth. He thus says to the aged man, Heavenly Contemplation, who has revealed this vision to him:

“Till now, said then the knight, I weened well,

That great Cleopolis, where I have beene,

In which that fairest Faerie Queene doth dwell,

The fairest Citie was, that might be seene;

And that bright towre all built of christall cleene,

Panthea, seemd the brightest thing, that was:

But now by proofe all otherwise I weene;

For this great Citie that does far surpas,

And this bright Angels towre quite dims that towre of glas.”

(I. x. 58.)

With his soul filled with the radiance of this vision of beauty, his eyes dazed—

“Through passing brightnesse, which did quite confound

His feeble sence, and too exceeding shyne.

So darke are earthly things compard to things divine—”

(I. x. 67.)

the Red Cross Knight descends from the Mount; and when after the completion of his labors he sees Una on the day of her betrothal, he wonders at a beauty in her which he has never before seen. Una has now laid aside her black veil, and shines upon him in the native undimmed splendor of truth.

“The blazing brightnesse of her beauties beame,

And glorious light of her sunshyny face

To tell, were as to strive against the streame.

My ragged rimes are all too rude and bace,

Her heavenly lineaments for to enchace.

Ne wonder; for her owne deare loved knight,

All were she dayly with himselfe in place,

Did wonder much at her celestiall sight:

Oft had he seene her faire, but never so faire dight.”

(I. xii. 23.)

The contribution of Platonism to the formation of the ideal of holiness can now be easily recognized. The discipline of the Red Cross Knight in the House of Holiness is twofold. In the practice of the Christian graces—faith, hope, and charity—the Knight is perfected in the way of the righteous life. He is a penitent seeking to cleanse his soul of the infection of sin. On the Mount of Heavenly Contemplation he exercises his soul in the contemplative vision of the eternal world. But the emphasis laid by Platonism upon the loveliness of that wisdom which is the object of contemplation results in quickening the imagination and in stirring the soul to realize the principle in love. This is the exact nature of the experience of the Red Cross Knight at the end of his journey. On the Mount of Heavenly Contemplation he has a desire to remain in the peaceful contemplation of heaven:

“O let me not (quoth he) then turne againe

Backe to the world, whose joyes so fruitlesse are;

But let me here for aye in peace remaine,

Or streight way on that last long voyage fare,

That nothing may my present hope empare.”

(I. x. 63.)

But the aged sire, Heavenly Contemplation, reminds him of his duty to free Una’s parents from the dragon. (I. x. 63.) Obedient but still purposing to return to the contemplative life (I. x. 64.), the Knight descends; and in the performance of his duty he gains the reward that the contemplative life brings. “But he,” says Plato, “whose initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator of many glories in the other world, is amazed when he sees any one having a godlike face or any bodily form which is the expression of divine beauty.” (“Phædrus,” 251.) Thus it is that the Red Cross Knight

“Did wonder much at her celestiall sight.”

(I. xii. 23.)

With that sight comes the one joy of his life after the many struggles experienced in the perfection of his soul in holiness.

“And ever, when his eye did her behold,

His heart did seeme to melt in pleasures manifold.”

(I. xii. 40.)

II. TEMPERANCE

The spiritual welfare of the soul was the prime object of importance to the Christian. Through the power of its doctrine of heavenly beauty Platonism had entered into the conception of this life considered in its heavenward aspect. It remained to show how it could explain the right manner of conduct for the soul in the presence of those strong passions which were felt as the disturbing elements of its inner welfare. In the Platonic system of morality there was a conception of temperance, σωφροσύνη, based upon an analysis of the soul sufficiently comprehensive to cover the entire scope of its activities; in fact, temperance was there conceived as the necessary condition for the presence of any virtue in the soul. The vitality of this teaching in English poetry is found in the second book of Spenser’s “Faerie Queene,” celebrating the exploits of the knight Guyon,

“In whom great rule of Temp’raunce goodly doth appeare.”

(Introd., stz. 5.)

The adventures of Guyon, through the discipline of which he perfects himself in temperance, fall into two distinct groups. Up to the sixth book the conflicts in which he is concerned are those calculated to try his mastery of the angry impulses of his nature. After the sixth book his struggles record his proficiency in governing the sensual desires of appetite. This division is made in accordance with the analysis of the soul on which Plato bases his doctrine of temperance. Within the soul are three distinct principles,—one rational and two irrational. The irrational principles are, first, the irascible impulse of spirit (θυμός) with which a man is angry and, second, the appetitive instinct the workings of which are manifested in all the sensual gratifications of the body, and in the love of wealth. The rational principle is that of reason by which a man learns truth. (“Republic,” IX. 580, 581.) Against this one rational principle the two irrational impulses are constantly insurgent, and temperance is that harmony or order resulting in the soul when the rational principle rules and the two irrational principles are obedient to its sovereignty. “And would you not say,” asks Socrates, “that he is temperate who has these same elements in friendly harmony, in whom the one ruling principle of reason, and the two subject ones of spirit and desire are equally agreed that reason ought to rule, and do not rebel?” (“Republic,” IV. 442.)

The rule of right reason in Guyon over his angry impulses is recorded in three instances; in each case the anger is aroused under varying conditions. The opening episode of the book presents Guyon checking the impetuous fury of his wrath when he learns that it has been aroused by a false presentation of the facts. Archimago, the deceitful enemy of truth, related to Guyon how the Red Cross Knight had violated the purity of a maiden; and the pretended maiden herself became a party to the lie. (II. i. 10, 11, 17.) When Guyon heard of this outrage he hastened to avenge the wrong.

“He staid not lenger talke, but with fierce ire

And zealous hast away is quickly gone

To seeke that knight.”

(II. i. 13.)

And yet he wondered how the Red Cross Knight could have done such a deed. He knew that he was a knight of honor and had won glory in his defence of Una. (II. i. 19.) He was quick, then, to restrain himself when about to charge upon the accused Knight, for on his shield he recognized the cross of his Lord. When he was on the point of clashing with his enemy, he

“gan abace

His threatned speare, as if some new mishap

Had him betidde, or hidden daunger did entrap.”

(II. i. 26.)

After an apology and an exchange of knightly courtesies with the Red Cross Knight he was able to

“turne his earnest unto game,

Through goodly handing and wise temperance.”

(II. i. 31.)

The second encounter of Guyon with the forces of wrath is the struggle with Furor and his mother Occasion. (II. iv. 3–36.) He has now to try his strength in conquering wrath when it has an occasion to be aroused. The power with which he strives is described as a fury of great might, but so ill-governed by reason that in its blind passion its force is spent to no purpose.

“And sure he was a man of mickle might,

Had he had gouvernance, it well to guide:

But when the franticke fit inflamd his spright,

His force was vaine, and strooke more often wide,

Then at the aymed marke which he had eide:

And oft himselfe he chaunst to hurt unwares,

Whilst reason blent through passion, nought descride,

But as a blindfold Bull at randon fares,

And where he hits, nought knowes, and whom he hurts nought cares.”

(II. iv. 7.)

Guyon struggles with this madman and finally, after he has quieted the reviling tongue of Occasion, who urges her son, Furor, on to the conflict, he binds him with iron chains.

“In his strong armes he stiffely him embraste,

Who him gainstriving, nought at all prevaild:

For all his power was utterly defaste,

And furious fits at earst quite weren quaild:

Oft he re’nforst, and oft his forces fayld,

Yet yield he would not, nor his rancour slacke.

Then him to ground he cast, and rudely hayld,

And both his hands fast bound behind his backe,

And both his feet in fetters to an yron racke.”

(II. iv. 14.)

The third trial of Guyon’s reason is by a species of wrath so wilfully furious that it runs to seek an occasion for a quarrel, and finds no rest until it has succeeded. This type of irascible impulse is portrayed in Pyrochles. He delights in deeds of daring might, and in blood and spoil. (II. iv. 42.) His squire, Atin by name, acts as his forerunner to seek an occasion for his lord’s furious delight. (II. iv. 43.) But Guyon masters himself both in his refusal to fight for no good reason, and in his behavior when forced against his wishes to a conflict with Pyrochles. Guyon bids Atin tell his master that he, Guyon, has bound Occasion, and the Palmer, who is the rational element of Guyon personified, lectures the squire on the folly of wilful anger.

“Madman (said then the Palmer) that does seeke

Occasion to wrath, and cause of strife;

She comes unsought, and shonned followes eke.

Happy, who can abstaine, when Rancour rife

Kindles Revenge, and threats his rusty knife;

Woe never wants, where every cause is caught,

And rash Occasion makes unquiet life.”

(II. iv. 44.)

Even when Guyon is compelled by Pyrochles to the fight, the Knight does not give way to unrestrained wrath, but ever tempers his passion with reason. In the conflict Pyrochles thundered blows:

“But Guyon, in the heat of all his strife,

Was warie wise, and closely did awayt

Avauntage, whilest his foe did rage most rife.”

(II. v. 9.)

When at last Guyon has his foe at his feet, he spares his life, so firmly he holds his passion in check.

“Eftsoones his cruell hand Sir Guyon stayd,

Tempring the passion with advisement slow,

And maistring might on enimy dismayd.”

(II. v. 13.)

Thus far Guyon’s life has exemplified the rule of reason over the irrational element of wrath; the remaining episodes of his life centre about the struggle of the irrational element of appetite. In this his soul is tried in three various forms of sensual desire. In Phædria the first form is typified. She represents the light gaieties of frivolous mirth and wantonness which the courteous nature of Guyon may suffer to play until they pass the bounds of modesty. (II. vi. 21.) When, however, she tried to win his heart from warlike enterprise into dissolute delights of sense, Guyon

“was wise, and warie of her will,

And ever held his hand upon his hart:

Yet would not seeme so rude, and thewed ill,

As to despise so courteous seeming part,

That gentle Ladie did to him impart,

But fairely tempring fond desire subdewd,

And ever her desired to depart.”

(II. vi. 26.)

The second trial of Guyon’s temperance comes in the House of Mammon, where he triumphs over sensual desire in the form of covetousness. Mammon offers him mountains of gold, if he will but serve him (II. vii. 9.); he tries to induce him to accept by saying that money is the one necessity to supply all the wants of man. (II. vii. 11.) But Guyon answers:

“Indeede (quoth he) through fowle intemperaunce,

Frayle men are oft captiv’d to covetise.”

(II. vii. 15.)

When Mammon urges him to seat himself on the silver stool in the Garden of Proserpina, to rest awhile and eat of the golden fruit of the trees,—

“All which he did, to doe him deadly fall

In frayle intemperance through sinful bayt;”

Guyon

“was warie wise in all his way,

And well perceived his deceiptfull sleight,

Ne suffred lust his safetie to betray;

So goodly did beguile the Guyler of the pray.”

(II. vii. 64.)

The culminating trial of the Knight’s temperance is made in Acrasia’s Bower of Bliss. Acrasia typifies that form of beauty that allures the senses with pleasure, but ruins the soul with its poisonous delight. (II. i. 52, 53.) The only fear that she and the inmates of her bower have is

“wisedomes powre, and temperaunces might,

By which the mightiest things efforced bin.”

(II. xii. 43.)

During the passage to this place of delight, and while he was within its precincts, Guyon was able to withstand every assault of sensual desire upon his soul. When the Palmer, speaking as reason dictated, told him that the piteous cry of a woman in distress was only a deceitful ruse to win him to harm—

“The knight was ruled, and the Boatman strayt

Held on his course with stayed stedfastnesse.”

(II. xii. 28, 29.)

Again, when Guyon’s senses are “softly tickled” by the rare melody of the mermaids, as it mingled with the strange harmony of the rolling sea, he bids the boatman row easily.

“But him the Palmer from that vanity,

With temperate advice discounselled,

That they it past.”

(II. xii. 34.)

Even when Guyon began to lessen his pace at the sight of the fair maidens sporting in the lake, which kindled signs of lust in his countenance, his reason was able to resist.

“On which when gazing him the Palmer saw,

He much rebukt those wandring eyes of his,

And counseld well, him forward thence did draw.”

(II. xii. 69.)

He has now become so strong that he can perform the great object of his adventures, the destruction of the Bower of Bliss and the capture of the enchantress, Acrasia. (II. xii. 83, 84.)

So powerful is the hold on Spenser’s mind of this Platonic conception of the nature of the struggle in the soul striving to be temperate that it colors even the Aristotelean doctrine of the mean which is worked out in the episode of Medina’s castle. (II. ii. 13 et seq.) According to Aristotle temperance is a mean between the excess and defect of pleasure. (“Nich. Ethics,” III, 10.) In Spenser, Medina is the mean; her two sisters, Elissa and Perissa, are the defect and excess respectively. (II. ii. 35, 36.) Yet Spenser has colored the character of each in accordance with the Platonic division of the soul. The three sisters are daughters of one sire by three different mothers; that is, they are the three principles of the soul (the sire); namely, right reason (Medina), wrath or spirit (Elissa), and sensual desire (Perissa). Thus Spenser describes Elissa:

“with bent lowring browes, as she would threat,

She scould, and frownd with froward countenaunce;”

(II. ii. 35.)

and Perissa

“Full of disport, still laughing, loosely light,

And quite contrary to her sisters kind;

No measure in her mood, no rule of right,

But poured out in pleasure and delight.”

(II. ii. 36.)

So, too, in the description of the lovers of each, the presence of the two irrational principles is felt. In Hudibras, the devoted Knight of Elissa—

“not so good of deedes, as great of name,

Which he by many rash adventures wan,

· · · · ·

More huge in strength, then wise in workes he was,

And reason with foole-hardize over ran,”—

(II. ii. 17.)

the angry impulse of the soul is reflected; while in Sans Loy, the lover of Perissa, who had attempted to violate the purity of Una,—

“The most unruly, and the boldest boy,

That ever warlike weapons menaged,

And to all lawlesse lust encouraged,”—

(II. ii. 18.)

it is apparent that the appetitive element of the soul is figured. Temperance, then, according to Spenser, is not the golden mean between the excess and defect of pleasure, but between two disturbing passions.

“But temperance (said he) with golden squire

Betwixt them both can measure out a meane,

Neither to melt in pleasures whot desire,

Nor fry in hartlesse griefe and dolefull teene.”

(II. i. 57.)

This struggle between the rational principle and the irrational elements in the soul does not, however, constitute temperance. That virtue, or rather that condition of all virtue, is the harmony and order resulting in the soul after reason has quieted the disturbing passions, and is conceived by Plato as its very health or beauty. “‘Healthy,’ as I conceive,” says Socrates, “is the name which is given to the regular order of the body, whence comes health and every other bodily excellence.... And ‘lawful’ and ‘law’ are the names which are given to the regular order and action of the soul, and these make men lawful and orderly:—and so we have temperance and justice.” (“Gorgias,” 504.) The fruition of this idea in Spenser’s mind is noticeable in his manner of speaking about temperance throughout his poem. Amavia had been able to win her husband back to the ways of purity through wise handling and “faire governaunce.” (II. i. 54.) The Red Cross Knight mentions the “goodly governaunce” of Guyon’s life. (II. i. 29.) Spenser comments in an introductory stanza on the Knight’s demeanor in pleasures and pains:

“And Guyon in them all shewes goodly maisteries.”

The Knight and the Palmer move on in their path of progress “in this faire wize,” that is, in the ways of temperance. (II. i. 34.) When Archimago meets Guyon, he meets

“Faire marching underneath a shady hill,

A goodly knight,”

· · · · ·

“His carriage was full comely and upright,

His countenaunce demure and temperate.”

(II. i. 5, 6.)

The feeling of order is conveyed through the movements of Guyon’s charger. The Palmer

“ever with slow pace the knight did lead,

Who taught his trampling steed with equall steps to tread.”

(II. i. 7.)

Medina, when she welcomes Guyon to her castle, meets him

“Faire marching forth in honorable wize.”

(II. ii. 14.)

The clearest explanation, however, of Spenser’s conception of temperance as the condition of the soul’s excellence in the body is given in his reflection at the opening of the eleventh book of the second canto, which records the repulse of the bodily senses from the dwelling-place of Alma, or the soul. No war is so fierce as that of the passions with the soul.

“But in a body, which doth freely yeeld

His partes to reasons rule obedient,

And letteth her that ought the scepter weeld,

All happy peace and goodly government

Is setled there in sure establishment;

There Alma like a virgin Queene most bright,

Doth florish in all beautie excellent:

And to her guestes doth bounteous banket dight,

Attempred goodly well for health and for delight.

(II. xi. 2.)

After this examination of Spenser’s ideals of holiness and temperance, it is clear why Platonism as a system of ethics is absent in the remaining books of the “Faerie Queene.” Spenser’s avowed aim in his poem was “to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline.” Since he conceives of life as a constant warfare with inward and outward foes, his method of presenting his thought is to send each virtue on a journey during which it is to perfect itself by overcoming the vices to whose assaults it is especially liable. This plan is carefully followed in the first two books. The allegorical scheme is unbroken; the personages encountered by the Knights are objectified states of their own spiritual consciousness. In the remaining books, however, the allegorical scheme has well-nigh broken down; and the poetic method is that of the romantic epic of adventure in the manner of Ariosto. This change was due very largely to the fact that after Spenser had completed his first two books he had exhausted the ethical teachings of Plato; and when he went on to his remaining books, he passed out of the sphere of virtue as taught by Plato into an essentially different realm of thought in which the graces of courtly accomplishment were dignified as virtues. He tried to treat these later virtues of chastity, friendship, justice, courtesy, and constancy as if they were coördinate with the virtues of holiness and temperance. But they fall into a distinct class by themselves. They are the ideals of conduct to be followed when man is acting in his purely social capacity as a member of society. They may be dignified as virtues, but can never be coördinate with the Platonic conception of virtue, which conceives of it not as an outward act, but as the very health of the soul when realizing, unhampered by any disturbing influences, its native impulses toward the good.

The difference between these two conceptions is strikingly illustrated by a comparison of Spenser’s idea of justice with the Platonic notion. According to the English poet, justice is purely retributive, a dispensing of reward and punishment. The education of the Knight of Justice, Arthegal, by Astræa, is thus described:

“There she him taught to weigh both right and wrong

In equall ballance with due recompence,

And equitie to measure out along,

According to the line of conscience,

When so it needs with rigour to dispence.”

(V. i. 7.)

In Plato, on the other hand, justice is the same thing as temperance, an inward state of the soul and the condition of any virtue. “But,” says Socrates, “in reality justice was such as we were describing, being concerned however not with the outward man, but with the inward, which is the true self and concernment of man: for the just man does not permit the several elements within him to interfere with one another, or any of them to do the work of others,—he sets in order his own inner life, and is his own master and his own law, and at peace with himself; and when he has bound together the three principles within him ... and is no longer many, but has become one entirely temperate and perfectly adjusted nature, then he proceeds to act ... always thinking and calling that which preserves and cöoperates with this harmonious condition, just and good action, and the knowledge which presides over it, wisdom, and that which at any time impairs this condition, he will call unjust action, and the opinion which presides over it ignorance.” (“Republic,” IV. 443.) Spenser did not attempt to incorporate this idea into his notion of justice; he had already exhausted it in his second book, in his explanation of temperance. Nothing was left for him to do but to shift his mind from a conception of virtue as one, to an inferior notion of virtue as a manifold of personal graces. But in thus changing his idea, he destroyed the unity of his work. In his first two books he had explained how the soul could perfect itself in the full scope of its powers; and in doing this he had taught the Platonic doctrines of a heavenly beauty and of temperance as the condition of virtue in the soul. Here lay the basic idea of his conception of a gentleman.

“But vertue’s seat is deepe within the mynd,

And not in outward shows, but inward thoughts defynd.”