Nay, Aristotle would not have missed the quadrature of the
circle, if only baleful conflicts had spared the books of the
ancients, who knew all the methods of nature. He would not have
left the problem of the eternity of the world an open question,
nor, as is credibly conceived, would he have had any doubts of
the plurality of human intellects and of their eternity, if the
perfect sciences of the ancients had not been exposed to the
calamities of hateful wars. For by wars we are scattered into
foreign lands, are mutilated, wounded, and shamefully disfigured,
are buried under the earth and overwhelmed in the sea, are
devoured by the flames and destroyed by every kind of death. How
much of our blood was shed by warlike Scipio, when he was eagerly
compassing the overthrow of Carthage, the opponent and rival of
the Roman empire! How many thousands of thousands of us did the
ten years' war of Troy dismiss from the light of day! How many
were driven by Anthony, after the murder of Tully, to seek hiding
places in foreign provinces! How many of us were scattered by
Theodoric, while Boethius was in exile, into the different
quarters of the world, like sheep whose shepherd has been struck
down! How many, when Seneca fell a victim to the cruelty of
Nero, and willing yet unwilling passed the gates of death, took
leave of him and retired in tears, not even knowing in what
quarter to seek for shelter!
Happy was that translation of books which Xerxes is said to have
made to Persia from Athens, and which Seleucus brought back again
from Persia to Athens.
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