Priceton.org

Eleven…

Twelve…

Hours…Months…Signs of the Zodiac…Labours of Hercules…Olympians…Tribes of Israel…Apostles…Disciples…Labours of the Month…

We come now to Eleven, which is a number whose whole significance, it seems, is determined by its relation to the number Twelve. One speaks of the “eleventh hour” as a time of urgency before the final twelfth, and similarly, I suppose, the captains of business refer to a company on the verge of bankruptcy as being in “chapter eleven”.

This, as I say, presumes that there are twelve chapters in the book of time, and so there are. There are twelve hours in the day, an arbitrary division that is obviously a reflection of the twelve lunar months and the twelve signs of the zodiac through which the sun appears to travel in its annual revolution.

In ancient mythology – so much of which is solar mythology –, the prominence of the number Twelve is thus guaranteed. Hercules’ twelve labours, for instance, are a displacement of the myth of the solar god (Hercules’ original identity), who annually conquers each of the twelve zodiacal monsters in his victorious round.

The twelve Olympians are very probably related to the zodiacal constellations in the same way, as were the twelve tribes of Israel in ancient Hebrew mythology. And for the same reason, as Thomas Carlyle concludes in his book on The Hero, “Any vague rumour of number had a tendency to settle itself into Twelve.”

The twelve tribes assure us that there must be other Old Testament Twelves. As Rabanus Maurus writes in the ninth century,

This number…is typified by many things in the Old Testament: by the 12 sons of Jacob; by the 12 princes of the children of Israel; by the 12 running springs in Helim; by the 12 stones in Aaron’s breastplate; by the 12 loaves of the shew-bread; by the 12 spies sent by Moses; by the 12 stones taken out of Jordan; by the 12 oxen which bare the brazen sea. Also in the New Testament, by the 12 stars in the bride’s crown, by the 12 foundations of Jerusalem which John saw, and her 12 gates.

Of course, the most important New Testament antitypes of the twelve tribes are the twelve disciples and the twelve apostles (with their twelve tongues of fire and doves of the Spirit at Pentecost), which give rise in turn, in the Middle Ages, to the twelve knights of the round table in the Arthurian tradition.

The division of the year into twelve months is the occasion for an important literary and artistic tradition devoted to the description of the Labours of the Months. The tradition traces back to Hesiod’s Works and Days, conscripted any number of so-called “pastoral” or “bucolic” poets, and included the “eclogues” that were obligatory exercises of poets in general from Virgil through the eighteenth century. They are thus the theme of one of the Elizabethan Spenser’s most famous works, The Shepherd’s Calendar.

As one would expect, allegories of the Labours of the Month are also widely depicted in medieval and Renaissance art: in manuscript illuminations, emblem books, ecclesiastical sculpture, and stained glass. Occasionally, in such depictions, the year begins in March or April (to correspond with the Annunciation or the Passion), occasionally on Christmas Day.

Most commonly, it begins with January, under the zodiacal sign of Aquarius. To the medieval peasant, January was still the month of feasts, including as it does that period of Christmas that ends on Epiphany or Twelfth Night. (The twelve days of Christmas was but another of those arbitrary “settlings” into the number twelve that Carlyle spoke of.)

To represent January, thirteenth-century sculptors usually showed us the figure of an old man seated before a well-provisioned table. Sometimes he had two heads, one of an old, the other, a young man: one looking back to the past, the other forward to the future (the familiar iconography, that is, of the two-faced classical god Janus).

In representations of February, under the sign of Pisces, we see the peasant warming himself contentedly before the fire.

In March, with the sun in Aries, he is outside, surrounded by the first flowers of spring, on his way to the vineyard to dress his vines.

In April (Taurus, the sign of Venus) we see an amorous youth crowned with flowers, or carrying ears of corn, in token of the embryonic seed that is forming at this time of year.

May (Gemini) is the month of chivalric and aristocratic sport; it is typically represented by a young nobleman going forth on horseback, carrying a lance, or a falcon on his wrist.

In June (Cancer) the meadows are mown by a figure carrying a scythe over his shoulder, a whetstone at his side, or bringing the cut hay back to the barn. Sometimes, there are scenes of sheep-shearing.

July (Leo) brings the harvest; at Chartres the peasant cuts the corn with his sickle, at Notre Dame in Paris, the harvester sharpens his scythe in preparation for work.

In August (Virgo) the harvest continues, or the threshing of the wheat begins.

September (Libra) is the month of vintage: at Chartres, we see the grapes being gathered, taken to the vats, and happily trod. At Amiens, instead, we see the labourers picking fruit.

In October (Scorpio), the fermented wine is transferred to its casks, and the seed for next spring is broadcast.

In November (Sagittarius), the peasant at Amiens gets in his wood supply; at Chartres and Paris, the swineherd watches his pigs fattening themselves on acorns.

December (Capricorn) is a time of preparation for the Christmas festival. Pigs and cattle are slaughtered, cakes are baked; or a reveler is depicted, glass in hand, seated with a ham before him.

The year, as Emile Male notes, “begins and ends with jollity”. And on this happy note, we end our numerological survey.

There are other important numbers, of course: twenty, twenty-four, forty, seventy, seventy-two, one hundred, and so on; but their significance is a function of the factors of which they are the product, and in any case, we are long overdue to move on to other themes.

Ten

Ten is the perfect number in the same way in which Eight is: it is the number in which the circle is closed, and the beginning is reborn from the end. This is so obvious that the early writers hardly ever mentioned it, exercising their minds to praise its perfection in more subtle ways.

We’ve already discussed Pythagoras’ tectractys of the decad, in which Ten is expressed as the sum of the first four numerals: 1 + 2 + 3 +4. In his treatise refuting the Manichean heresy, Augustine discovers a more obviously Christian arrangement: “This number Ten signifies perfection; for to the number Seven, which embraces all created things, is added the Trinity of the Creator”.

 

The architecture of Dante’s Commedia is organized according to the sum of seven plus two equal nine plus one equals ten. In Hell, sins fall into three ethical categories (the Sins of the Leopard, the Lion, and the Wolf), and their perpetrators are disposed in seven circles: four of Incontinence, one of Violence and two of Fraud. To these Dante adds two circles of wrong belief: one of unbelief (the Limbo of the Pagan Worthies) and another of perverted belief (the Circle of the Heretics). Finally, he adds the Vestibule of the Futile, who have neither faith nor the capacity to decide (and thus to undertake moral action, as it was anciently defined).

This makes, then, ten main divisions in Hell, disposed according to the same numerical scheme (7+2=9 +1=10) as we find in the other books of the Comedy. There are seven Cornices of Purgatory, each allotted to one of the Seven Deadly Sins. These in turn are divided once more into three broad categories (Love Perverted, Love Defective, and Excessive Love of Secondary Goods). The Seven Cornices are approached from the Two Terraces of the Ante-Purgatory, and followed by the Earthly Paradise at the summit of the Mountain. Heaven, similarly, consists of a total of ten spheres: the seven planetary spheres, beyond which lie the spheres of the fixed stars and the Primum Mobile, beyond which lies the outermost sphere, the Empyraeum, that is, the true Heaven of God.

Nine…

Muses…The Egyptian Ennead…Orders of Angels…

Dante…

Because it is the Trinity squared, the number Nine is the spiritual and celestial number par excellence. Its importance can be traced, once again, to cosmology. As discussed earlier, there are conventionally nine spheres, the ninth and outermost being the Empyraeum or Heaven of God, as in Cicero’s scheme, or the Primum Mobile, as in that of Dante, who makes the Empyraeum his tenth heaven.

Associated with these nine heavenly spheres are the Muses, the nine goddesses whose mother was Mnemosyne (Memory) because, as Plato explains the myth allegorically, all knowledge consists in the things that the soul recollects from its prior experience of them in the celestial order. Companions of the three Graces and followers of Apollo, the Muses’ sacred haunt was the mountaintop that stretched into the heavens, sometimes Olympus, more often Helicon or Parnassus. By tradition, each of the Muses was the patroness of a different art or department of knowledge: Urania of astronomy, Clio of history, Melpomene of tragedy, Thalia of comedy, Erato of love-poetry, Calliope of epic, Euterpe of lyric, Polyhymnia of songs to the gods, and Terpsichore of dance.

 

We first hear of the nine Muses in Hesiod’s Theogony, but the pre-eminence of the number Nine had been assured long before. The Egyptian pantheon was called the Ennead, or Nine, consisting of the Ogdoad of the four pairs of Gods I have already enumerated, and their progenitor, Nun.

Influenced as it was by Egyptian theosophy, Neo-Platonism was especially impressed by the mystical power of the number Nine. The founder of Neo-Platonism, Plotinus (early third century), quite consciously divided his great treatise into nine books, whence it came to be called The Enneads.

It was under the profound influence of Plotinus that the early sixth-century Christian mystic and theologian known as the Pseudo-Dionysius wrote four seminal works, The Celestial Hierarchies, The Ecclesiastical Hierarchies, The Divine Names, and the Mystical Theology, whose impact on later Christian doctrine, literature, and art was as powerful and enduring of that of his immediate contemporary Boethius. Latinized by John Scotus Eriugena in the ninth century, the works of the Pseudo-Dionysius were the well-spring of medieval Christian mysticism, negative theology, and angelology.

It was in The Celestial Hierarchies that the Pseudo-Dionysus gave us the familiar nine orders of angels, disposed into three “hierarchies” of three species each, an arrangement famously described by Spenser as “trinal triplicities”. The first hierarchy consists of the species Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones; these are the creatures closest to God, whom they face with nothing interposed, and around whom they conduct their joyful round of dance, song, and prayer. The Pseudo-Dionysus associates them, naturally, with fire, the highest element, with which they burn with the love of God, and whereby their complexions are conventionally ruddy.

The second hierarchy is comprised of the Dominations, Powers, and Virtues (where virtue – i.e., virtus – retains its primary meaning of strength or efficacy). The activities of this hierarchy too are concerned with the worship and glorification of God, whose image, reflected in the angels of the first triad, they in turn reflect into the third and lowest.

Here, we find creatures who are concerned with the guidance and salvation of man: the Principalities, Archangels, and Angels. The word “angels” is thus both a generic term for creatures who reside in all nine species or orders, and the particular name for the members of the lowest.

It is the members of this lowest triplicity with whose names we are already familiar from Scripture: Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, and so on. The Principalities are the guardians of nations (Michael, for instance, is the Principality assigned to the Jews, a tradition that goes back to Daniel 12:1). But the Archangels and Angels are the only beings who appear to individuals (as Lewis remarks in The Discarded Image):

for pseudo-Dionysius is as certain as Plato or Apuleius that God encounters Man only through a “mean”, and reads his own philosophy into scripture…He cannot deny that Theophanies, direct appearances of God Himself to patriarchs and prophets, seem to occur in the Old Testament. But he is quite sure that this never really happens. These visions were in reality mediated through celestial, but created, beings “as though the order of the divine law laid it down that creatures of a lower order should be moved God-ward by those of a higher” (Cel. Hier. iv). That the order of the divine law does so enjoin is one of his key conceptions. His God does nothing directly that can be done through an intermediary; perhaps prefers the longest possible chain of intermediaries; devolution or delegation, a finely graded descent of power and goodness, is the universal principle. The Divine splendor (illustratio) comes to us filtered, as it were, through the Hierarchies.

(We have met this idea before in discussing the Platonic “third” that mediates between the binary opposites as a common middle. The Pseudo-Dionysius’ principle that forbids any direct contact between the ineffable Godhead and his material creation–requiring instead His manifestation into the lower orders of existence through a chain of intermediaries–is, similarly, a pagan and Platonic one. Thus, when Lewis writes that the Pseudo-Dionysius “reads his own philosophy into scripture”, he means, of course, the philosophy of Plato, which the Church Fathers had begun to read into the Bible four centuries earlier. The Pseudo-Dionysius is here merely carrying on that enduring Platonizing enterprise of which Christianity is the syncretistic product.)

 

The most famous exponent of the mystical potency of the number Nine was Dante. His Beatrice was the very embodiment of the trinal-triplicitous mystery. Dante meets her, as he reports, when he is near the end of his ninth year and she approaching the beginning of hers. While amusing himself one day in recording the names of the sixty most beautiful women in Florence, as Dante writes in the Vita Nuova, “miraculously it happened that the name of my lady appeared as the ninth among the names of those ladies, as if refusing to appear under any other number”.

Later in the same work, Dante writes of Beatrice’s death that it occurred during the first hour of the ninth day of the month in the year 1290, that is, “in which the perfect number [i.e., ten] had been completed nine times in that century in which she had been placed in this world”. Then he adds:

One reason why this number was in such harmony with her might be this: since, according to Ptolemy and according to Christian truth, there are nine heavens that move, and since, according to widespread astrological opinion, these heavens affect the earth below according to the relations they have to one another, this number was in harmony with her to make it understood that at her birth all nine of the moving heavens were in perfect relationship to one another. But this is just one reason. If anyone thinks more subtly and according to infallible truth, it will be clear that this number was she herself—that is, by analogy. What I mean to say is this: the number three is the root of nine for, without any other number, multiplied by itself, it gives nine…Therefore, if three is the sole factor of nine, and the sole factor of miracles is three, that is, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, who are Three in One, then this lady was accompanied by the number nine so that it might be understood that she was a nine, or a miracle, whose root, namely that of the miracle, is the miraculous Trinity itself. Perhaps someone more subtle than I could find a still more subtle explanation, but this is the one which I see and which please me the most.

Not surprisingly, Dante is “pleased” to see that Nine is the organizing number of the cosmos of his Commedia; but we’ll have to postpone our discussion of his scheme until we come to what he calls the perfect number, “ten”.

Before then, we must mention two other nines: the ninth hour at which Christ dies on the Cross, and the Nine Worthies, who were divided, as usual, into three sets of three each: three pagans (Hector, Alexander the Great, and Julius Caesar); three Jews (Joshua, David, and Judas Maccabeus); and three Christians (Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Bouillon).

Eight…

Contraries…The Ogdoad…The Eighth Sphere…

Eight Tones of the Scale… The Music of the Spheres…

Eight Days of the Week…The Baptismal Octave…

Eight Ages of the World…The Octave of the Great Year…

If seven is the number of process and time, Eight is the number of completion, regeneration, and therefore eternity. As usual, we must begin with the myths of cosmogony and cosmology.

We remember that in Greek cosmology, each of the four elements is constituted of two contraries: fire, of hot and dry, air, of hot and wet, water, of cold and wet, earth, of cold and dry. We thus have a total of eight elemental contraries, made up of four pairs.

The imagery of Eight as the sum of four pairs of opposites is ubiquitous and probably goes back to the Egyptian archetype of the Ogdoad. In Egyptian cosmogony, the primeval chaos is represented as four couples, that is, four pairs each composed of the fundamental opposites of male and female: Nun and his consort Naunet; Kuk and Kauket; Huh and Hauhet; and Amon and Amunet. Emerging out of the primeval sea, the creator-god Atum first brings these chaotic elements into order. In the Heliopolitan cosmogony, Atum then fertilizes himself, giving rise to another Ogdoad, that of the living gods. Thus Shu and Tefnut, born of Atum, produce from their union Geb and Nut, who give birth in turn to Osiris and Isis, and their siblings Set and Nephthys. The generation of this octet is remembered in the Osirian mystery cult, in which the initiate who has become one with Osiris proclaims: “I am the One who becomes Two; I am the Two who becomes Four; I am Four who becomes Eight; I am the One after that.” Mystically, then, by dividing into Eight, the One becomes One again; it returns to its beginning; it is reborn unto unitary eternity.

Think of the figure eight, or rather of the circle of which it is a variation – the figure traced, most resonantly, by the orbits of the seven heavenly bodies, by which time is marked. Their endless circular rotation, from beginning to end back to beginning, is a restless movement that paradoxically preserves stasis; wherefore, as Plato explains in the Timaeus, the circle of time is the “mobile image of eternity”. Outside of these mobile markers of time–beyond the seven planetary orbs – resides the Eighth Sphere, the sphere of the Fixed Stars, or Stellatum, whose immobility (at least relative to one another) places it metaphorically beyond the bourn of the temporal universe.

Since time is number is music, we note that each of the seven planetary spheres produces a distinct musical tone. As Scipio Africanus the Elder explains in Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis, the lowest tone is naturally enough produced by the slowest-moving of the heavenly bodies. This is the Moon, the lowest sphere, whose tight orbit around the Earth means that it revolves rather lethargically. As we move through the higher spheres, the orbits become wider, and therefore more rapid, and the planetary bodies produce notes of correspondingly higher pitch.

The Eighth Sphere of the Fixed Stars – fixed, that is, with respect to one another, but nonetheless revolving about the Earth at vast speed – produce the highest tone, precisely an octave about that of the Moon. This means that there are in fact not seven but eight tones in the musical scale, the eighth tone, the octave, being the same as the first–whence the whole circle of music and existence begins all over again. The whole produces the so-called musica mundana or harmonia mundi, the “music of the spheres”, another recurrent topos to which we must return once our numerological survey is complete.

The imagery of the seven different and moving things leading to the Octave of Stasis and Rebirth extends, by analogy, to the days of the week. To the medieval mind, the Beatles would have been right: there are eight days in a week. Sunday is the octave, the first and last (that is, eighth) day, and it was on this day that Christ arose from the dead, triumphing over mortality and time.

The medieval baptistery, and the baptismal font, are therefore eight-sided, to represent this Octave of Rebirth. In it, of course, the candidate descends with the crucified Christ beneath the surface of the waters of the underworld sea, dies there to the body and the world, and is reborn as a new creature unto eternal life.

Parallel to the weekly/baptismal is the historical octave. The sixth age of the world begins, as we’ve seen, with the birth of Jesus and ends with the Parousia. The seventh is the Last Times, from the Final Judgment to end of the world. The eighth age is the eternal Kingdom of God.

Finally, there is the octave of the “great”, or “perfect”, or “revolving” year. Timaeus 39d, the locus classicus of this mythic theme, explains that “the perfect number of time fulfils the perfect year when all the eight revolutions, having their relative degrees of swiftness, are accomplished together and attain their completion at the same time.” At this instant, as Scipio the Elder rehearses the theme in Cicero’s Somnium, “all the stars return to the place from which they at first set forth, and…restore the original configuration of the whole heaven”; and thus “that can truly be called a revolving year”.

What is the duration of this “revolving year”? Scipio doesn’t know, but he can assure his grand-nephew that the whole history of the world to this point has not amounted to even a twentieth part of it.

Seven, concluded…

The Seven Liberal Arts …

Martianus’ De Nuptiis…Alan’s Anticlaudianus…

I’ve already mentioned the ontological disposition of Seven into Three and Four. The Seven Liberal Arts were grouped in the same way, with the distinction, this time, between what we might call a corporeal Trivium and a spiritual Quadrivium.

The Trivium consisted of Grammar, Rhetoric, and Dialectic, and was regarded, for reasons that will become clearer in a moment, as an introductory course of studies that prepared the adolescent intellect for the higher theoretical and metaphysical mysteries of the Quadrivium, consisting of the mathematical disciplines of Arithmetic, Geometry, Music, and Astronomy.

The study of the Trivium was, in essence, the study of literature. The Greek gramma, from which we get “grammar”, means an alphabetic “letter” (grammar’s close relation to literature suggested, obviously enough, by the derivation in Latin of “literature”, the abstract noun, from littera, “letter”).

The student of Grammar not only learned the parts of speech, the rules of syntax, and so on, but was introduced to a traditional canon of literary texts including, in ancient Greece, the epics of Homer pre-eminently, and in Rome, Homer, Virgil, Ovid, and numerous other auctores.

Rhetoric was the study of the figures of speech used by poets and orators, and Dialectic was concerned less with the rational-philosophical method for ascertaining ontological truth than the most effective means for winning spoken or written arguments.

 

Plato, as we all remember, had notoriously excluded poetry from the curriculum in his ideal Republic because it trafficked in sensual images, the mere copies and reflections of the invisible and stable realities that were for him the proper objects of the philosophical intelligence. From the time of Plato – indeed, from the birth of what we call “philosophy” in the age of the Pre-Socratics – until the end of the eighteenth century, the antithetical and hierarchical relation between the sensual and “feminine” poetic arts and the masculine and rational pursuits of philosophy was another ubiquitous topos. It is this same intellectual hierarchy that is preserved in the relation between the literary studies of the Trivium and the mathematical sciences of the Quadrivium.

In the prologue to the Anticlaudianus, a twelfth-century poem to which we will return in a moment, Alan of Lille describes their relationship as follows:

Let those not dare to show disdain for this work who are still wailing in the cradles of the nurses and are being suckled at the breasts of the lower arts [i.e., the Trivium]. Let those not try to detract from this work who are just giving promise of a service in the higher arts [the Quadrivium]. Let those not presume to undo this work who are beating the doors of heaven with their philosophical heads. For in this work, the sweetness of the literal sense will soothe the ears of boys, the moral instruction will inspire the mind on the road to perfection, the sharper subtlety of the mystical allegory will whet the advanced intellect. Let those be denied access to this work who pursue only sense-images and do not reach out for the truth that comes from reason, lest what is holy, being set before doges be soiled, lest the pearl, trampled under feet of swine be lost [Matt. 7:6], lest the esoteric be impaired if its grandeur is revealed to the unworthy.

Here, then, the ladder of human knowledge rises from the lower “sensual” arts of the Trivium, to the higher intellectual arts of the Quadrivium, and thence, to Philosophy. Philosophy “beats its head on the gates of heaven”, but as we learn later in Alan’s allegory, only Theology can enter. (We encounter the same motive in the Commedia, of course, where, as the embodiment and symbol of the highest achievements of human culture and wisdom, Virgil can guide Dante only so far up the Mountain of Purgatory, whereafter he must cede the mystagogic mantle to Beatrice, symbol of divine knowledge, who alone can reveal to him the hidden mysteries of God’s celestial Paradise.)

In the passage from Alan, one notes, besides, a correspondence between the hierarchy of the intellectual disciplines and that of the familiar four senses of allegory. The Trivium corresponds to the literal sense of poetry, fittingly enough, which pleases the immature appetites of boys with its sensual images, while the Quadrivium, Philosophy, and Theology correspond to the three allegorical senses (allegory proper, tropology, and anagogy), in turn.

 

The ultimate authority and source for all such hierarchical schemes is Martianus Capella’s seminal treatise on the Seven Liberal Arts, De Nuptiis Mercurii et Philologiae (The Wedding of Mercury and Philology). Martianus was a pagan grammarian who flourished between 410 and 439 – roughly contemporary with Macrobius, that is, whose commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio we have had occasion to mention several times. The powerful and enduring influence of both of these authorities on later medieval and Renaissance thought and letters demonstrates, once again, the fundamental continuity between antique paganism and Christianity.

Martianus’ Latin work preserved, in the form of an elaborate mythological fiction, the basic characteristics of an educational system that derived from ancient Greece, and was handed on, in turn, to the Christian Middle Ages, whence it survived more or less intact to the beginning of the last century.

Filling nine books and over five hundred pages in the Renaissance folio edition, it is predictably tiresome to the post-modern reader, but, along with other late-antique pagan mythological allegories, such as Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae, it set the fashion for a long tradition of both medieval allegorical romance and philosophical poetry, that included everything from the Roman de la Rose to Alan of Lille’s Anticlaudianus and Bernardus Silvestris’ De universitate mundi. Since its allegorical interpretations and themes were so often reprised throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance, a brief excursion here seems warranted.

The Reader’s Digest version of the action, confined to the first two books of Martianus’ treatise, goes as follows:

Martianus begins with a hymn to Hymen, the classical god of love and marriage, who is the matchmaker among the deities of Olympus, and simultaneously lauded as the primordial conciliator of the warring elements—the cosmogonic role played, since antiquity, by innumerable other gods/allegorical abstractions, including the Celestial Venus, Eros, Nature, Logos-Reason, Concord-Harmony, Moira (Fate), and Dike (Justice).

Of the Olympians, Mercury is the last remaining bachelor; Virtus accordingly advises him to seek Apollo’s advice on a prospective bride, and when Mercury does so, the God of Truth and Reason proposes the learned Philologia. Having been initiated not only in the mysteries of poetry by the Muses of Parnassus but also in the secret lore of the heavens and the underworld, Philologia is a repository of universal knowledge.

Apollo, Virtus, and Mercury, accompanied by the Muses, then ascend through the planetary spheres to the palace of Jupiter, where the assembled gods grant Mercury’s wish and admit his bride into the ranks of the immortals. She is dressed for the wedding by her mother Phronesis (Wisdom), and attended by the Four Cardinal Virtues and the Three Graces (our number Seven, again). In a litter carried by Labor and Amor along with the maidens Epimelia (Application) and Agrypnia (the nocturnal efforts of the sleep-deprived scholar), she is borne upward to the heaven beyond the planets, where she is received by Juno, the patroness of marriage, as well as all manner of allegorical figures, demigods, and heroes, including the antique poets and sages. As her wedding gift, the bride receives the Seven Liberal Arts, to each of which Martianus then devotes one book of his work.

In keeping with late-antique fashion, the arts are personified as women, each distinguished by her symbolic clothing and attributes, and each of which comes forward to discourse on the nature, lore, and most illustrious masters of her subject.

Grammar is a grey-haired crone, claiming descent from the first Egyptian king Osiris, the traditional inventor of the alphabet, and carrying an ivory casket resembling a surgeon’s case of instruments, since grammar surgically excises the errors of speech. In the casket are inks, pens, tablets, candlesticks, a file in eight sections (symbolizing the eight parts of speech), and a scalpel to operate upon the tongue and teeth for the improvement of elocution.

Dialectic presents herself next, a thin woman in a black cape with hair coiffed in elaborate rolls. She holds a serpent half-hidden under her robe in her left hand, and in her right, a wax tablet and fish-hook. The allegorical symbolism is explained by Remigus of Auxerre in his tenth-century commentary on Martianus: the curls of hair, he observes, denote the sinuations of the syllogism, the serpent the subtleties of sophistry, and the hook the sting of victorious argument.

Rhetoric next advances to the heraldry of trumpets. Helmeted and armed with those formidable weapons with which she attacks her oratorical foes, she is a tall and elegant lady, dressed in a gorgeous gown ornamented with metaphors, synecdoches, and other figures of speech, and festooned with precious jewels.

Geometry’s robe is embroidered with the trajectories of the stars, the shadow cast by the earth upon the sky, and the signs of the gnomic parallelogram of the sundial. She carries a globe and the instruments of her trade: a pair of compasses and a tablet on which she draws her figures.

From the forehead of the ancient goddess Arithmetic is emitted a ray which divides in half, thirds, quarters, and so on, to infinity. Her fingers (i.e., digits) move with blinding agility and speed, symbolizing, as Remigus comments, the rapidity of her calculations.

Astronomy emerges from a lambent flame, wearing a coronet of stars upon her head. She soars upon golden wings with crystalline feathers, and carries her astrolabe for measuring the positions of the heavenly bodies.

Last, Music, or Harmonia, comes forward at the head of a retinue of goddesses and famous poets and musicians, including the Graces, the Muses, Orpheus, Arion, and Amphion, all of whom sing sweetly to the accompaniment of her golden-strung lyre.

These, then, are the conventional iconographical attributes of the Seven Ladies in the train of the bride Philologia in Martianus Capella’s epithalamial allegory.

 

From the time of its publication, Martianus’ De Nuptiis entered the school curriculum and occupied a space on the shelves of every major monastic and cathedral library in Europe. The central role that it played in European education ensured that Martianus’ allegorical figures would be described again and again in poetry, and represented, their attributes endlessly multiplied and embellished, in manuscript illuminations, woodcuts, engravings, stained glass, sculptural programs, murals, and paintings throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance.

We find them prominently displayed, once again, on the western facade of Laon and the royal portal of Chartres–not surprisingly, being amongst the most important schools of medieval Europe, and attracting as directors such famous men of letters and science as Anselm, Gilbert of Poitiers, John of Salisbury, and Thierry and Bernard.

Chartres especially was a centre of classical literary and philosophical learning, toward which her teachers and students displayed an uncomplicated reverence. Not coincidentally, amongst Thierry of Chartres’ most famous works is his Heptateuchon, or Manual on the Seven Liberal Arts; and it was Bernard (his successor as director of the cathedral school in the mid-twelfth century) who said famously of the ancient pagans: “If we see further than they, it is not in virtue of our stronger sight, but because we are lifted up by them and carried to a great height. We are dwarfs carried on the shoulders of giants.”

In fact, we see the Seven Goddesses depicted on most of the major cathedrals and churches throughout France and Europe: at Auxerre, Sens, Rouen, Clermont, Le Puy, at the famous Spanish Chapel of Sta. Maria Novella in Florence. We meet them again on the façade of the university at Bologna, and in Botticelli’s famous fresco from the Villa Lemmi in the Louvre.

In most cases, the attributes of the Goddesses are preserved more or less unchanged from Martianus, with the notable exception of Music, who at Le Puy and Florence now holds a hammer with which she strikes her bells, meant to recall the medieval tradition according to which the inventor of music was neither the pagans Apollo nor Orpheus nor Pythagoras, but the biblical Jubal from whom the Greek arch-musicians supposedly learned their craft. For Christians, alternatively, it was David who was Music’s greatest practitioner, and who was also typically represented with hammers and bells in medieval Psalters.

While preserving the basic iconography of Martianus’ Seven Maidens, the medieval artists thus felt obliged to pay tribute as well to the legendary discoverers and most illustrious exponents of the arts. At Chartres, as elsewhere, beneath each of the Arts is depicted the seated figure of a man engaged in writing or contemplation. Seated under Grammar is a figure meant to represent either Donatus (fourth-century pagan grammarian, author of The Art of Grammar, and commentator on Virgil) or Priscian (late-fifth), whose grammatical primers were used in the schools and extant in thousands of medieval manuscripts. Under Rhetoric, appears Cicero, whose De Inventione and Rhetorica ad Herennium remained standard school texts until the nineteenth century. (As Alan of Lille observed, “Rhetoric might be called the daughter of Cicero.”) Dialectic is accompanied by Aristotle, proclaimed by Isidore of Seville as the father of that discipline, whose temporarily lost Organon (the Categories, De Interpretatione, Analytics, and Topics), was probably first reintroduced into Chartres’ cathedral school by Thierry around 1142. Also at Chartres, the figure seated beneath Music is once again Pythagoras, whose study of music yielded the mathematical underpinnings of ancient cosmology, and bequeathed to Platonism its fundamental orientation. There too, under Astronomy, we find Ptolemy, under Geometry, Euclid, and beneath the feet of Arithmetic, a figure who is possibly Pythagoras again (accorded this double honour), or perhaps Boethius.

The theme of the Seven Liberal Arts is no less frequently rehearsed in literature than in the plastic arts. At the time of Charlemagne, Theodulf, bishop of Orleans, despicts them in his Latin poem on the Liberal Arts in much the same manner as Martianus. Some time before 1107, Baudri, the abbot of Bourgueil, published a famous poem describing the opulent chamber of the Countess Adela, daughter of William the Conqueror, whose bed is elaborately decorated with figures of the Seven Arts. In the late-twelfth century, Alan of Lille, perhaps the greatest of the medieval Latin poets, depicts them again in his Platonizing allegorical epic, Anticlaudianus.

 

Since the Anticlaudianus rehearses so many of the themes and topoi to which we will be returning, another Reader’s Digest summary is in order here.

The mythic pretext of the action is the realization by the Goddess Natura that her works, especially her human ones, are somewhat defective, and her ardent, desire, therefore, to collaborate in the creation of the perfect man. To assist her in this project, she calls down the Virtues from heaven to the garden-paradise in which she dwells, which Alan describes in terms of the classical myth of the Golden Age (another ubiquitous literary topos).

When Nature tells the Virtues of her aspiration to create the “divine man”, Prudence endorses the enterprise enthusiastically, but points out that while they can assist in the fashioning of the body, his soul must be created directly by God. Reason then recommends the sensible course of action: Prudence must be appointed Nature’s ambassador to heaven to petition God for a soul.

She initially demurs, protesting in epic fashion that she is unworthy of this adventure, until Concord addresses the assembly, advising that it must achieve perfect unity: for if she had not at the beginning of things bound the warring elements together in love and harmony, all would have reverted to mutual aggression and the world would have collapsed again into chaos. Thus the poet disposes of another obligatory philosophical topos, and thus the Virtues agree to combine their efforts to persuade Prudence to accept the charge.

When they do, Prudence relents. Then, like Martianus’ De Nuptiis, like Dante’s Comedy in the next century, and on the model of innumerable passages in Plato, the principle motive of the Anticlaudianus becomes the journey to heaven in quest of knowledge of the eternal and immutable ideas, the exemplars and causes of all things as they reside in the Nous, the Mind of God.

To mount through the heavenly spheres on her ascent to the Infinite, Prudence needs a chariot, surpassing any known in history. And too construct and provision this marvelous conveyance, Reason summons the Seven Liberal Arts.

First comes Grammar, last Astronomy, each fashioning a different component of the chariot, the attire and accoutrements of each described and allegorically interpreted in elaborate detail, and each discoursing at length on the lore of her subject and the lives and works of its most famous authorities.

Alan devotes, in fact, almost a thousand lines and two full books of his nine-book epic to the description of the Seven Liberal Arts.

 

There are other important sevens (the Seven Seals of the Apocalypse, Seven Hills of Rome, Seven Wise Men, Seven Wonders of the World), all of which were subjects of moral and philosophical commentary; but we can only mention them here.

And then there were eight.

Seven, cont’d…

The Battle of The Virtues and the Vices…

Prudentius’ Pyschomachia…

I’ve said that the Virtues and Vices tended to be described and displayed in oppositional pairs, and now I must return to this motive. It comes jointly from the tradition I have been describing, and from another that goes back to the poetry of the fourth century, in which the war of the Virtues and Vices was a favourite theme for the new Christian epic that was then being born.

The theme’s model and locus classicus was the Psychomachia (War of the Soul), a famous allegorical epic written by the fourth-century Latin poet Prudentius, in which the antagonists are the armies of God and Satan, and the battlefield is at once the psychic interior of man and the entire universe.

The Psychomachia recounts the battle in heroic Virgilian hexameters, and displays throughout the reverence that the Christian Middle Ages held for the Aeneid. Its influence on later Christian poetry and art demands that we pause for the briefest summary.

Prudentius shows us the armies of the Virtues and Vices in menacing array on the battlefield. One by one, champions emerge from their ranks, challenge one another, and engage in single combat.

First Faith, with appropriate self-confidence, rushes onto the field; disdaining to protect herself with her familiar Pauline breastplate and shield, she advances boldly against her old enemy Idolatry, and quickly prevails.

Next Chastity, a young girl in shining armour, confronts Lust, a courtesan who carries a smoking torch. Chastity overturns the torch, cuts down her enemy with her sword, and while standing over the corpse, extols the Old Testament Judith, in whom chastity first triumphed.

Patience then advances, and stands placidly awaiting the attack of Anger, whose blows she absorbs without flinching. Seeing that Patience is invulnerable, Anger seizes a javelin in her rage and thrusts it into her own breast. Thus Patience prevails without even drawing her sword.

Now Pride, mounted on a spirited charger, prances before the army of Virtues. Her hair piled up like a tower on her forehead, she taunts them, accusing them of craven cowardice. Suddenly horse and rider disappear into the pit that Deceit (Fraus) has secretly dug on the battlefield, and Humility then approaches, takes the shield that Hope holds out to her, and vanquishes Pride. Thereupon the beautiful maiden spreads her golden wings and soars heavenwards.

Self-induglence (Luxuria) steps forward, her hair ostentatiously coiffed and perfumed, her car a marvelous chariot whose axle is gold, wheels silver-gilt, and coachwork sparkles with precious stones. Like her patroness Venus in the Aeneid, she is an indifferent fighter, flinging violets and rose-petals at her enemies instead of arrows and missiles. The Virtues are at first confused by the curious manner of her attack, but Temperance, armed with the standard of the Cross, steps in front of the car. The horses rear, the chariot is overturned, and Luxuria is tossed into the mud. Abandoned by her retinue, including Cupid, she is dispatched by Temperance with a single blow of a stone.

Meanwhile, while Luxuria is being ejected from her car, Avarice is gathering up in her claw-like fingers the gold and jewels spilled overboard. She hides them in her bulging purses and bags beneath her cloak, until Beneficence slays her and distributes her pelf to the poor.

Following a brief rally by the army of the Vices, the battle is over, and the triumphant Virtues celebrate their victory by raising a temple like that of the New Jerusalem in the Apocalypse.

 

Prudentius’ allegorical epic inspired more imitations than I could name. The Carolingian poets Theodulph of Orleans and Walafrid Strabo recounted the battle of the Virtues and Vices, to which, in the twelfth century, Alan of Lille devoted the ninth and last book of his philosophical allegory, Anticlaudianus. Theologians, biblical exegetes, and encyclopaedists also rehearsed the theme.

Hugh of St. Victor (twelfth century) treats of it in his De anima, Isidore of Seville (seventh) in his Book of Sentences; Pope Gregory the Great (late-sixth) in his treatise De conflictu vitiorum et virtutum (part of which is reproduced by Isidore, and in the thirteenth century, by Vincent of Beauvais, in his Spectrum historiale).

Scenes from Prudentius were inevitably represented in manuscript illuminations and sculptural programs on the facades of the great Romanesque and Gothic cathedrals. At Laon, for instance, we see Luxuria, called Libido, holding the flaming torch with which she threatens Castitas; we see Faith contending with Idolatry, Superbia with Humilitas, Patientia with Ira, and so on.

On the north porch at Chartres, the triumphant Virtues are shown, no longer in conflict, but hieratically, with their enemies lying prone beneath their feet. Here, moreover, the choice of scene and subject is no longer precisely that of Prudentius, but expands into the whole Virtues-Vices tradition whose history we have been tracing. Thus, Charity is juxtaposed with Avarice, who not content with filling her purse, hides her excess riches in her bosom; Pride, who tumbles head-first into the ditch that has opened beneath his feet, is ranged against Humility; Despair, who falls on his sword, is opposed to Hope.

But almost every conceivable pair of opposites is here depicted in stone: Prudence and Folly, Justice and Injustice, Fortitude and Cowardice, Temperance and Intemperance, Faith and Infidelity (who appears in the guise of the Old Woman Synagoga). With the addition of many others, including Concord and Discord, Perseverance and Inconstancy, we see the same, or similar, pairs represented in plaques in bas-relief on the façade of Notre Dame in Paris and at Amiens.

While varying slightly from example to example, the iconography of these Virtues and Vices was more or less conventional, and would have been well-known to poets and artists throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance; but, unfortunately, I don’t have time to say much more about it here.

I must move on to our last important Seven, the Seven Liberal Arts.

Seven, cont’d…

Seven Deadly Sins…As the Branches of the Tree of Knowledge…

As the Heads of the Dragon of the Apocalypse…

Spenser’s Pride Parade…

The representation of the Seven Deadly Sins as the Tree of Knowledge rooted in Pride is – since Pride caused the Fall – probably the commonest commonplace of all. As Chaucer’s Parson explains,

Of the roote of thise sevene synnes, thanne, is Pride the general roote of alle harmes. For of this roote spryngen certein braunches, as Ire, Envye, Accidie or Slewthe, Avarice or Coveitise (to commune understondynge), Glotonye, and Lecherye. And everich of thise chief synnes hath his braunches and his twigges, as shal be declared in hire chapitres folwynge.

Sometimes Pride is depicted as the crowning bough, rather than the root of the Tree, as we see in a frontispiece woodcut decorating a late-fifteenth-century edition of Boccaccio’s De Claribus Mulieribus (On Illustrious Women), which shows the Seven Sins perched within the branches of the Tree of Knowledge. Pride, at the top, holds a mirror; Envy gnaws upon a heart; Avarice counts her coins in a box; Wrath brandishes a sword; Lechery kisses a woman; Gluttony is drinking; and Sloth is sound asleep.

Instead of Superbia, sometimes the Evil Tree has Avaritia as its root, in keeping with the verse (1 Tim. 6:10) Radix omnium malorum est cupiditas. (This was the favourite preaching text of Chaucer’s Pardoner, and the means by which he convinced his congregants to empty their pockets to buy his pardons, and so satisfy his own avarice.)

In some cases, too, the Deadly Sins are depicted as the Tree’s seven roots, and these roots are at the same time the seven heads of the Dragon of the Apocalypse.

This was another ubiquitous commonplace: we find it in Gregory the Great, Richard and Hugh of St. Victor, Honorius of Autun, Albertus Magnus, Bonaventure, and so on. We find it, once again, in the Somme le roi. Frere Lorens’ third tract on the Seven Deadly Sins begins with a description of John’s “beast that arose out of the sea”; accompanying the manuscript illuminations of this seven-headed beast, each head labeled a Deadly Sin, is the text, “Ceste beste senefie le deable.” The Beast is Satan, who is also the Leviathan, whose heads of sin the Christian knight on his way to salvation must cut off. As the rebel angel Lucifer, Satan is the archetypal embodiment of Pride, from whose body the heads of sin emerge, just as the boughs of sin ramify from the trunk and root of Pride at the base of the Evil Tree.

 

No less popular than their depiction as the heads of the Satanic Dragon or the branches of the Tree of Death, was the Pageant of the Seven Deadly Sins, a favourite theme of the writers of the medieval morality plays. Our example comes, however, from Spenser’s Faerie Queene I, iv, since it will serve at the same time to illustrate some of those other conventional themes and topoi that populate practically every stanza of his, and many other Elizabethan poems.

Spenser’s protagonist, Red Cross Knight (a type of Adam who falls, and then gradually conforms himself to the image of the Second Adam – King Arthur in Spenser’s allegory), has been seduced by Duessa (Duplicity, Fraus, False Religion Posing as True, Eve, the Whore of Babylon), who appears to him in the guise of Una (the One, Truth, the Second Eve, the Church, the Bride of Christ), whom a deluded Red Cross fecklessly abandons. As canto iv opens, the False Una, weary of the “toilsome way”, has led Red Cross to one of her accustomed pleasure haunts, the House of Pride.

Leading to its wide gate is a broad highway, made bare and smooth by the feet of the legions who have trampled it down: this is, of course, the broad highway of Matt. 7:13-14 that leadeth to destruction (another theme of universal dispersion). The House of Pride itself is a stately palace, magnificently faced in gold foil, and topped by lofty towers, the tallest of which displays a clock. The towers thus identify it with the Tower of Babel, and the clock is the fit symbol of Augustine’s City of Man, subject to the ravages of time. Like the goods and pleasures of this world, moreover, its apparent beauty is a tinsel of glitter, a thin and corruptible facade that seeks to imitate the true and lasting beauty of the Heavenly City. Beneath this false veneer, Spenser describes the Palace as “cunningly” constructed of brick without mortar, evoking the verse from Ezekiel 13:10, “So will I [Yahweh] break down the wall that ye daubed with untempered mortar, and bring it down to the ground, so that the foundation thereof shall be discovered, and it shall fall, and ye shall be consumed in the midst…” And indeed, the House of Pride is precariously erected upon a “weak foundation”, a sandy hill, in fact, that shifts with every breeze, evoking another well-known text from Matthew, “A foolish man…built his house upon the sand; and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell.” (Matt. 7:26)

Hidden in the depths of this sumptuous mansion, as we discover later, is a hideous dungeon, in which the corpses of those who once frolicked in the state rooms above now lay rotting. The House of Pride is thus beautiful above and repulsive below, like Duessa herself, as we also discover later, when at the conclusion of Book I she is stripped by Arthur, revealing her “nether regions” as those of a misshapen hag. (The symbolism is, obviously enough, of the retributive underworld to which the life of sin and falsehood inevitably leads.)

The building’s “hinder parts, that few could spy” were similarly “ruinous and old, but painted cunningly”. In this, the Palace reflects the iconography of the Goddess Fortuna, who is typically described as alluringly beautiful in front, but hiding a serpent’s tail and sting under her mantle in the rear, symbolic of the worldly goods that promise fair and deliver ill.

As Red Cross and Duessa are inauspiciously ushered into the Palace by the porter Malvenu (Ill Welcome), they are overwhelmed by the “endless riches and sumptuous shew” on display. Perched on a dais high above her fawning courtiers, they see the Queen, Lucifera, striving to outshine, with her “blazing beauty”, the “brightness of her glorious throne” . But Lucifera’s blazing beauty is thereupon compared by Spenser with the ill-fated brilliance of the son of the sun-god Apollo, Phaethon, who demanded the keys to his father’s solar chariot. Phaethon was another stock exemplum of the sin of overweening ambition or Pride, whose fable (as told especially in Ovid’s Metamorphoses) was commonly allegorized as a mythic type of the biblical Lucifer’s aspiration and fall.

Lucifera is herself identified as the daughter of Lucifer, or rather of another mythological type of Lucifer, the Roman god Pluto, Lord of the Underworld. Of course, she is too proud for such dubious ancestry, so she pretends that her father is Jupiter. On her throne she sits gazing toward the heaven whither, like her true Satanic parent, she aspires, when she is not, that is, gazing contentedly at the reflection of her peerless beauty in a mirror.

She rules the kingdom she has unlawfully usurped by tyrannical force and fraud, in which she is abetted by her foppish and sycophantic courtiers, including her six evil counselors.

After Duessa has been received as a familiar by the court, the Pageant ensues:

Sudden upriseth from her stately place
The royal dame and for her coach doth call…

So forth she comes and to her coach does climb,
Adorned all with gold and garlands gay,
That seemed as fresh as Flora in her prime
And strove to match in royal rich array
Great Juno’s golden chair, the which they say
The gods stand gazing on when she does ride
To Jove’s high house through heaven’s brass-paved way,
Drawn of fair peacocks, that excel in pride
And, full of Argus’ eyes, their tails dispreaden wide.

But this was drawn of six unequal beasts,
On which her six sage counselors did ride,
Taught to obey their bestial behests,
With like conditions to their kinds applied.
Of which the first, that all the rest did guide,
Was sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.
Upon a slothful ass he chose to ride,
Arrayed in habit black and amis thin,
Like to an holy monk, the service to begin.

And in his hand his portess still he bare,
That much was worn but therein little read;
For of devotion he had little care,
Still drowned in sleep and most of his days dead.
Scarce could he once uphold his heavy head
To looken whether it were night or day…

From worldly cares himself he did esloin
And greatly shunned manly exercise;
From every work he challenged essoin,
For contemplation sake. Yet otherwise
His life he led in lawless riotize,
By which he grew to grievous malady;
For in his lustless limbs, through evil guise
A shaking fever reigned continually.
Such was Idleness, first of this company.

And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony,
Deformed creature, on a filthy swine;
His belly was up-blown with luxury,
And eke with fatness swollen were his eyne,
And like a crane his neck was long and fine,
With which he swallowed up excessive feast,
For want whereof poor people oft did pine.
And all the way, most like a brutish beast,
He spewed up his gorge, that all did him detest.

In green vine leaves he was right fitly clad,
For other clothes he could not wear for heat;
And on his head an ivy garland had,
From under which fast trickled down the sweat.
Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat,
And in his hand did bear a boozing can,
Of which he supped so oft that on his seat
His drunken corse he scarce upholden can,
In shape and life more like a monster than a man.

Unfit he was for any worldly thing,
And eke unable once to stir or go,
Not meet to be of counsel to a king,
Whose mind in meat and drink was drowned so
That from his friend he seldom knew his foe,
Full of diseases was his carcass blue,
And a dry dropsy through his flesh did flow,
Which by misdiet daily greater grew.
Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew.

And next to him rode lustful Lechery
Upon a bearded goat whose rugged hair
And whally eyes (the sign of jealousy)
Was like the person self whom he did bear;
Who rough and black and flilthy did appear,
Unseemly man to please fair lady’s eye,
Yet he of ladies oft was loved dear,
When fairer faces were bid standen by.
O who does know the bent of woman’s fancy?

In a green gown he clothed was full fair,
Which underneath did hide his filthiness;
And in his hand a burning heart he bare,
Full of vain follies and newfangledness.
For he was false and fraught with fickleness,
And learned how to love with secret looks,
And well could dance, and sing with ruefulness,
And fortunes tell, and read in loving books,
And thousand other ways to bait his fleshly hooks.

Inconstant man, that loved all he saw
And lusted after all that he did love;
Nor would his looser life be tied to law,
But joyed weak women’s hearts to tempt and prove
If from their loyal loves he might them move.
Which lewdness filled him with reproachful pain
Of that foul evil, which all men reprove,
That rots the marrow and consumes the brain.
Such one was Lechery, the third of all his train.

And greedy Avarice by him did ride
Upon a camel loaden all with gold;
Two iron coffers hung on either side,
With precious metal full as they might hold;
And in his lap an heap of coin he told;
For of his wicked pelf his god he made,
And unto hell himself for money sold.
Accursed usury was all his trade,
And right and wrong alike in equal balance weighed.

His life was nigh unto death’s door y-placed,
And threadbare coat and cobbled shoes he ware,
No scarce good morsel all his life did taste;
But both from back and belly still did spare
To fill his bags and richness to compare.
Yet child ne kinsman living had he none
To leave them to; but thorough daily care
To get and nightly fear to lose his own,
He led a wretched life, unto himself, unknown.

Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffice,
Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store,
Whose need had end, no end covetise,
Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him poor,
Who had enough, yet wished ever more–
A vile disease. And eke in foot and hand
A grievous gout tormented him full sore,
That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand.
Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this fair band.

And next to him malicious Envy rode
Upon a ravenous wolf, and still did chaw
Between his cankered teeth a venomous toad,
That all the poison rank about his chaw.
But inwardly he chawed his own maw
At neighbors’ wealth, that made him ever sad;
For death it was when any good he saw,
And wept that cause of weeping none he had;
But when he heard of harm, he waxed wondrous glad.

All in a kirtle of discolored say
He clothed was, y-painted full of eyes;
And in his bosom secretly there lay
An hateful snake, the which his tail upties
In many folds and mortal sting implies.
Still as he rode, he gnashed his teeth to see
Those heaps of gold with gripple Covetise,
And grudged at the great felicity
Of proud Lucifera and his own company.

He hated all good words and virtuous deeds,
And him no less that any like did use;
And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds,
His alms for want of faith he doth accuse;
So every good to bad he doth abuse.
And eke the verse of famous poets’ wit
He does backbite, and spiteful poison spews
From leprous mouth on all that ever writ.
Such one vile Envy was, that fifth in row did sit.

And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath
Upon a lion loath for to be led;
And in his hand a burning brand he hath,
The which he brandisheth about his head.
His eyes did hurl forth sparkles fiery red,
And stared stern on all that him beheld,
As ashes pale of hue and seeming dead;
And on his dagger still his hand he held,
Trembling through hasty rage when choler in him swelled.

His ruffian raiment all was stained with blood,
Which he had spilt, and all to rage y-rent,
Through unadvised rashness woxen wood;
For of his hands he had no government,
Ne cared for blood in his avengement.
But when the furious fit was overpassed,
His cruel facts he often would repent;
Yet willful man, he never would forecast
How many mischiefs should ensue his heedless haste.

Full many mischiefs follow cruel Wrath;
Abhorred bloodshed and tumultuous strife,
Unmanly murder and unthrifty scath,
Bitter despite, with rancor’s rusty knife,
And fretting grief, the enemy of life.
All these, and many evils mo, haunt ire,
The swelling spleen and frenzy raging rife,
The shaking palsy and Saint Francis’ fire.
Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire.

If you are fortunate enough to live in a World-Class City, you will have witnessed such Pageants before. Last week in Toronto, the Black Bloc showed us Idleness, Envy, Avarice, and, especially, Wrath. This Sunday, the gay revelers will demonstrate Lechery, Gluttony, and, above all, Pride. Enjoy the parade.