Oration to Origen 1

An Oration of Thanksgiving by Saint Gregory the Wonderworker, addressed to Origen, which he delivered at Caesarea in Palestine, after the many years of study he had pursued under him, when he was about to depart for his homeland.

Silence is a good thing for many people on many occasions, and especially now for me, who am being stopped at the mouth and compelled to keep silent, whether willing or unwilling.

For I am unpractised and inexperienced in those fine and elegant discourses which are spoken or composed in an unhindered, continuous flow by choice and approved nouns and verbs in due order.

Perhaps too I am by nature less suited to labour at this charming and truly Hellenic art.

Moreover, it is now eight years since I myself have either spoken or written any discourse, great or small at all, nor have I heard anyone else writing or speaking privately, or in public delivering panegyric and forensic orations—except those wonderful men who have embraced the noble philosophy.

These men too care little for fine speaking and elegance of words;

rather, putting words in second place, they wish to investigate accurately the matters themselves, just as each one stands, and to declare them.

Not, I think, because they do not wish—indeed they greatly wish—to mould the fine and accurate thoughts in fine and well-formed speech;

but perhaps because they cannot so readily combine in one and the same small human soul two advantages, each proper to a different man, and in a way most contrary to each other: the sacred and godlike power in thoughts, and the elegance of reasoning that lies in expression.

For silence is in a way friendly and helpful to thought and discovery;

but you would not find eloquence and fluency in speech anywhere else than in words and their constant practice.

Nevertheless, yet another study grievously occupies my mind and binds my tongue at the mouth, should I wish to say even a little in the tongue of the Greeks—namely, our admirable laws, by which now the affairs of all men under the rule of the Romans are governed, laws neither framed nor learned without toil;

These laws are themselves wise, accurate, manifold and admirable, and, to put it briefly, most thoroughly Hellenic in spirit;

but when expressed and handed down in the Roman tongue—an awesome, lofty tongue, conformed to all the imperial authority, yet to me burdensome.

Yet I would never say that it could have been, or that I would have wished it, otherwise.

Since our words are nothing other than certain images of the affections of our soul, we may grant that to those able to speak—like certain good painters, most skilled in their art and rich also in the matter of colours—it is possible to paint pictures not only true to life but also varied and exceedingly beautiful with the rich blending of hues, hindered in nothing.

But we, like certain poor men, lacking these varied pigments—either never having acquired them, or perhaps having cast them away—use only as it were charcoal or potsherds, these our common and familiar nouns and verbs; and with such words as are within our means, sketching to the best of our power the originals of the affections of our soul, we try to imitate them, to show forth the characters of the soul's impressions, even if not vivid nor adorned, attempting it as in a charcoal drawing; and if anything shapely and well-phrased comes from somewhere, we gladly welcome it, though we also despise it.

Rather, the very subject for which I was eager to speak, but at which I now hesitate and shrink, restrains me and plainly bids me keep quiet and silent.

For I purpose to say something about a man who appears and seems to be human, but who, to those able to discern, has already laid aside most of that condition by a greater preparation of his migration toward the divine.

I do not come to praise his lineage or the rearing of his body, and then delay and put it off out of excessive reverence; nor his strength or beauty—

these are the encomia of mere youths, about which there is little concern whether they are spoken worthily or not.

For if it were my purpose to compose some discourse about things not abiding nor stable, but corrupted variously and swiftly, in a solemn and dignified manner with such delays, lest it prove cold or boastful—I would not have any of these things in mind to say, things useless and vain, such as I would never willingly set myself to speak of;

yet if it were my purpose, the discourse would have no caution nor concern at all, lest in saying anything I should appear inferior to its worth.

But now I am about to make mention of that which is most godlike in him, that which in him happens to be akin to God—imprisoned indeed in this visible and mortal body, yet most laboriously forcing itself to be made like to God; and recalling this, and about to lay hold somehow of matters greater than I, and through this also of some thanksgiving to the divine, because it has been granted me to fall in with such a man, beyond all human expectation, both of others and of myself, who neither ever purposed nor hoped for it—

about to lay hold of such matters, being small and utterly without sense, do I not with good reason draw back and hesitate and willingly keep silent? Indeed, to hold my peace seems to me the safe course, lest under the pretext of thanksgiving, but by reason of rashness, in treating of solemn and sacred things I should speak of them in unseemly, cheap and trodden-down terms, and so not only fail to attain the truth, but also, so far as in me lies, even pull down something in the eyes of those who believe it to be so—since the discourse, being feeble, will sketch out an outrage rather than a likeness of the deeds to their power.

And yet your virtues, O dear head, are not to be pulled down nor outraged, and much more the divine things, which abide in themselves as they are, unshaken, in no way harmed by our small and unworthy words;

but we—I know not how—shall scarcely escape the reputation of boldness and rashness, having leapt up in folly, with small mind and small preparation, upon matters great and perhaps beyond us.

And if elsewhere and concerning others we had been eager to make such a youthful display, even so we should have been bold and over-daring, yet shamelessness would be the cause of the rashness, since we would not be presuming thus concerning you;

but now we shall fill up the whole measure of folly—or rather have already filled it—having dared to trample with unwashed feet (as the saying goes) upon ears into which the divine word itself enters and dwells, clear and manifest, not with feet covered (as into those of most men) as though by certain thick hides of enigmatic and obscure expressions, but with bare feet, so to speak.

But we, carrying as it were filth or some mud—our human words—have dared to pour them into ears practised in hearing divine and pure voices.

Is it then enough to have erred thus far, and ought we now at last to begin to be sober, no longer advancing further in the discourse, but stopping here? I should have wished so;

yet, having once grown bold, let it be permitted me first to state the cause by which, being roused, I came to this contest, if perchance I might find some pardon for this rashness.

Ingratitude appears to me a dreadful thing, dreadful and altogether dreadful.

For when one has been well treated, not even to try to make some return—if no other way is possible, at least by thanksgivings expressed in words—is the mark of one wholly senseless and insensible to benefits, or forgetful of them.

Toward one who has begun bestowing benefits, such a man is idle, ungrateful and impious, sinning in ways not to be pardoned, whether he be great or small;

for if he is some great and high-minded man, in not bearing on his lips with all thanksgiving and honour the great benefits done him;

and if he is small and contemptible, in not hymning and blessing with all his power the benefactor not only of great but also of small things.

To the greater, then, and those advanced in strength of soul, as out of a greater abundance and great wealth, it is necessary to render to their benefactors greater and more generous praises according to their power;

but to the small and those placed in narrow circumstances, it is fitting not even for them to be careless or slothful, nor to give up, as though able to bring nothing worthy or complete;

but, as poor men yet of good understanding, measuring not the power of the one honoured but their own, to render honours from their present power—honours that will perhaps prove pleasing and welcome to the one honoured, and not in second place beside him after the great and many, if they offer them with a certain greater eagerness and a whole-hearted mind.

Thus it is recorded in the sacred books, that a certain small and poor woman, together with rich and powerful men who offered great and costly gifts out of their wealth, alone contributing small and very little, yet all that she had, carried off the testimony of having given the more.

For the sacred word, I think, weighed the munificence and magnificence not by the quantity of the matter given, which is external, but rather by the minds and choices of those who offer.

Therefore it is not fitting for us either to shrink back wholly out of fear of not being able to make our thanksgiving equal to the benefits, but rather, on the contrary, to dare and to attempt, if not equal honours, at least the possible ones, to offer in return;

so that, if in any way our discourse falls short of perfect things, it may at least attain to those in part, and escape the utter reputation of ingratitude.

For utter silence is truly useless, under the plausible screen of not being able to say anything worthy;

but the attempt at recompense is always the mark of gratitude, even if the power of him who renders the thanks be inferior to its worth.

For I will not keep silent because I am unable to speak worthily;

but if I fulfil all that is possible for me, I shall even take pride in it.

Let this discourse of mine then be a thank-offering;

to God, the God of all, I would not venture to address it;

and yet from Him come to us all the beginnings of good things, and from Him we ought to begin our thanksgivings, or hymns, or praises.

But indeed, not even if I brought and offered my whole self—not such as I now am, profane and unclean, mingled and defiled with all-defiling and impure evil, but bare and as pure, most radiant, most sincere, and unmixed with anything worse—not even, I say, if I brought my whole self bare, as it were newly born, could I bring from myself any gift worthy in honour and recompense to the Ruler and Cause of all;

Him whom neither each one privately ever yet, nor all together—even if all pure beings should become one and the same, departing from themselves and turning rather toward Him, all at once with one spirit and one concordant impulse—could worthily praise.

For whatever of His creatures might be able best and most completely to conceive, and, if possible, to speak worthily about Him—

yet by reason of that very power, of which it has been deemed worthy not from any other but from Him whom it received, there is no way that it could, by acquiring from anywhere anything else greater, dedicate it as thanksgiving.

But the praises and hymns to the King and Guardian of all, the abiding fountain of all good things, we shall entrust to Him who alone is able even in this to heal our weakness and to fill up what is lacking—to the Champion and Saviour of our souls, His first-begotten Word, the Creator and Pilot of all;

for to Him alone is it possible, on behalf of Himself and on behalf of all, both privately for each and collectively together, to send up to the Father continual and unceasing thanksgivings.

Being also the power, and moreover being in Him and absolutely united to Him, there is no way that, either through forgetfulness, or unwisely, or by some weakness, as though estranged from Him, He should either fail to reach the power of praise, or, reaching it, should willingly (which it is not lawful to say) leave the Father unpraised;

for to Him alone is it possible most perfectly to fulfil all the worth of the praises befitting Him;

Him whom the Father of all things Himself, having made one with Himself, through Him, all but Himself encompassing Himself, by His own equal and all-pervading power, in a way both honours and is honoured;

which His only-begotten, the God-Word in Him, was alone and first allotted to possess out of all that exist;

all others being able thus to be grateful and pious only if, bringing to Him alone in return for all the good things given us from the Father the power of worthy thanksgiving, we dedicate it—confessing this to be the one way of piety: through Him to make all remembrance of the Cause of all.

Wherefore let Him be acknowledged worthy of the abiding providence over all, which cares for us both in the greatest and in the least things and is even led on to this; let Him be confessed a sufficient Word for thanksgivings and hymns, being most perfect and living, and the ensouled Word of the very First Mind itself.

But let this thanksgiving of ours be, of all men most especially, to this sacred man;

and if I should wish to sing somewhat further, also to those who are not visible yet are more divine and care for men: to him who from my childhood took it as his lot, by some great decree, to manage, foster and guard me—the sacred angel of God, who feeds me from my youth, as that man dear to God says, meaning his own.

But whether he, being himself great, was allotted as guardian to me by some proportionately greatest being—either to some other, whoever it might be, or perhaps to the very Angel of the great Counsel, the common Saviour of all—being now by reason of his perfection appointed his guardian, I do not clearly know; only that he, both knowing and praising his own great one, whoever he may be.

But we, besides the common Pilot of all men, praise also this one—whoever he is—who privately is our tutor while we were infants.

Who, being in all things altogether a good nurturer and guardian of mine (not to me, nor to any of my dear ones, for we are blind and see nothing of what lies before us, so as to be able even to judge any of the things needful;

but in the way that to him, foreseeing all things that conduce to the benefit of our soul, it appeared expedient)—both long ago and still now nurtures, instructs and leads me by the hand; and indeed, besides all the rest, he so ordered things as to join me to this man (this being of all the chief point)—a man related to me neither by family nor by any human blood, nor otherwise a near neighbour or one of those dwelling close by, nor of the same nation at all—these being the things which to most men become the occasion of friendship and acquaintance;

but, to put it briefly, men unknown to each other, strangers, estranged, far separated from one another—as far as nations, mountains and rivers lying between divide us—He, by His truly divine and wise foresight, brought us to the same place, and so contrived this saving meeting for me;

providing for this, I think, from above, from my first birth and rearing.

How this came about would be long to recount, were one to be precise about everything and try to leave nothing out;

but only if, passing over much, I should wish briefly to mention a few of the more principal things.

For my first rearing from birth was under parents, and the ancestral customs were erring ones;

from which I think neither did anyone else expect that we should be set free, nor was there any hope for me—a child, irrational, under a superstitious father.

Then came the loss of my father and orphanhood, which was perhaps for me the very beginning of the knowledge of the truth.

For then first I was transferred to the saving and true word, I know not how, compelled rather than willing.

It began straightway, as when the common word of all men was but newly being fulfilled, yet sojourned then for the first time.

Which thing, no small matter—even if not long ago, yet now at least reckoning it up—I set down as a token of the sacred and wonderful providence concerning me: this concurrence so numbered out by the years;

so that all those things which preceded this age—all that were works of error—might be given over to infancy and irrationality; and that the sacred word might not be handed over in vain to a soul not yet rational, but to one now become rational, so that, if not destitute of the divine and pure word, at least it might not be bereft of the fear that accords with this word; but that together both the human and the divine word might begin in me, the one helping by its own ineffable yet to me proper power, the other being helped.

Which thing, when I reckon it, fills me at once with gladness and with fear—exalted by the advancement, yet fearing lest, having been deemed worthy of such beginnings, I should likewise stumble at the end.

But somehow my discourse has lingered too long in this part, wishing to recount in order the wonderful dispensation toward this man; yet hastening nonetheless first, and speaking briefly, on to what follows—not as rendering praise owed to Him who so ordered things, or thanksgiving and piety (let us not be burdensome, so naming it yet saying nothing worthy);

but as making a narration and confession, or some one of these more modest names.

It seemed good to my mother—the one parent left to care for us—that, among other things we were being educated in, as children supposedly not ignobly born and reared, we should attend also a rhetorician, as being destined to become rhetors.

And indeed we did attend, and those who then judged thus said that we would become rhetors before long;

but for my part I neither know how to say this, nor would I wish to;

but there was no word of these things, nor any foundation yet laid of the causes able to carry us hither.

But indeed the divine tutor and true guardian, being sleepless, when neither my own household had any such intention nor I myself was eager for it, came upon and conferred with one of my teachers, who had been entrusted otherwise with educating me in the Roman tongue (not that I should reach the height of it, but that I might not be wholly inexperienced even in this tongue;

and he happened to be not inexperienced in the laws).

Putting this into his mind, He urged me through him to learn thoroughly the laws of the Romans.

And that man did this earnestly;

and I for my part was persuaded, more to gratify the man than as being a lover of the art.

And he, taking me as his hearer, began to teach me zealously;

and he uttered something which has turned out for me the truest of all sayings;

that the learning of the laws would be a most great provision for me (for that was the word he used), whether I should wish to be some rhetor contending in the courts, or anyone else.

He, then, uttered it thus, directing his words to human ends;

but to me it seems plainly that, under some more divine inspiration, he prophesied beyond his own intention.

For when I was being educated, willing and unwilling, in these laws, certain bonds had already in a way been laid, and the cause and starting-point of the road hither was the city of the Berytians;

and that city, not far distant from those parts, is somewhat more Roman, and was believed to be a school of these laws.

And this sacred man from Egypt, from the city of the Alexandrians, where he happened formerly to have his hearth, He moved and removed to this region, as though to meet us—other circumstances also playing their part.

I for my part neither know how to give the causes of these things as well, and willingly will pass them over.

Yet not even thus was my arrival here and my encounter with the man so necessary, so far as concerned our laws, since it was possible to go abroad even to the city of the Romans.

How then was even this brought about? The then governor of the Palestinians, taking my sister's husband—a man related to me—suddenly, alone and unwilling, separated from his bedfellow, brought him here, to assist and share in the labours of the ruler of the province;

for he was a man learned in law, and perhaps still is;

and being separated against his will, he drew us also along together with her.

Suddenly then, I know not how, while we were intending to go abroad—but rather to go abroad somewhere else than here—there stood by us a soldier bearing an order, to escort and bring safely our sister who was going to join her husband, and to bring us also as fellow-travellers along with her;

doing a favour both to my brother-in-law, and especially to my sister, that she might not be unbecoming or too reluctant for the journey, having her own servants and kinsfolk to honour her; and accomplishing besides no small other useful purpose—that we, if we should come to the city of the Berytians, might there complete our study of the laws.

All things then set us in motion: the reasonableness of accompanying my sister, our own study, and besides this also the soldier (since he too must be mentioned), bearing authority to use a greater number of public conveyances, and tokens for a larger number—on our account rather than for my sister alone.

But the things not visible yet truer—the fellowship with this man, the true study through him concerning the things of the Word, the benefit of our souls unto salvation—these led us hither, blind indeed and unaware, yet to our salvation.

Therefore not the soldier, but some divine fellow-traveller and good escort and guardian, who through all this life as through a long journey preserves us, passing by both the other places and Berytus—for the sake of which especially we thought we were setting out hither—brought us and settled us here;

doing and moving all things, until by every device He should bind us fast to this man, the cause of our many good things.

And he, the divine angel, having come through so much, delivering the dispensation over to this man, here somewhere perhaps even rested—not from any weariness or toil (for the race of the divine ministers is untiring), but because he had handed me over to a man who would fulfil, if possible, all providence and care.

And he, having received me, from that first day—the truly first day for me, the most honoured of all days, if I may say so, when the true sun first began to rise upon me—first of all, as one binds fast wild beasts or fishes or birds that have fallen into the nets or seines and are trying to slip out and escape, wishing to withdraw from him to Berytus or to our homeland, contrived by every means to bind us fast;

turning every argument and (as the saying goes) plying every rope, and bringing into play all his powers;

praising philosophy and the lovers of philosophy with long and many fitting praises, saying that these alone live the life truly befitting rational beings—those who study to live aright, knowing themselves first, who they are, and then the things that are truly good, which a man ought to pursue, and the things that are truly evil, from which one ought to flee.

and blaming ignorance and all the ignorant;

and these are many—all who, blind in mind like cattle, not even knowing this very thing, what they are, like irrational creatures wandering astray, neither themselves knowing nor wishing to learn what good or evil is at all, rush as toward good and are agog after money, reputations and honours from the crowd and bodily well-being, esteeming these things of great—indeed of utmost—account, together with those arts which can procure these, and those modes of life which will furnish them: military service, advocacy, and the study of the laws;

these very things which he most stirred us up about, saying, and that very skilfully, that we had neglected the most authoritative thing in us, namely reason;

we being not yet wholly persuaded, yet somehow unable to withdraw again, but always as it were by certain greater necessities drawn by his words toward him.

For altogether, he asserted—rightly so saying—that it was not possible even to be pious toward the Master of all (this being that which alone of all living things on earth man has been honoured and deemed worthy to possess, and fittingly every single person, both wise and ignorant, holds fast to it, who has not utterly lost his right notions through some madness)—it was not, then, possible at all to be pious for one who had not philosophized;

until, pouring out many other such arguments one upon another, as upon men bewitched, in the end by his arts he simply rendered us immovable, and fixed us firmly upon his words, I know not how, by some divine power.

For he implanted in us also a sting of friendship—not one easy to overcome, but keen and most effective—of his dexterity and good disposition, of all the goodwill which showed itself to us in his very voice as he addressed and conversed with us;

not trying merely by arguments to get the better of us, but by a dexterous, humane and most kindly mind to save us and to make us partakers of the good things that come from philosophy, and most of all of those other things which the Divine has granted to him alone above the many, or perhaps above all men now living—the teacher of piety, the saving Word, who visits many and works upon all whom He meets (for there is nothing that will withstand Him, the King of all things both that are and that shall be), yet hidden and not known, neither easily nor with difficulty, by the many, so that those questioned cannot say anything clear about Him.

Like a kind of spark, then, falling into the midst of our soul, there was kindled and burst into flame both love toward the holy Word Himself—most lovely, most powerfully drawing all by His ineffable beauty—and love toward this man, His friend and spokesman;

by which I was so deeply smitten that, of all the matters or studies that seemed to concern us—the others, and even those fine laws of mine—I was persuaded to neglect, and homeland and household too, both those present here and those for whose sake we had travelled abroad.

One thing alone was dear and beloved to me: philosophy, and its guide, this divine man;

and the soul of Jonathan was knit to David.

This I read afterward in the sacred writings, but I had experienced it beforehand, no less vividly than it is stated—indeed most vividly delivered in the oracle.

For it was not simply Jonathan who was knit to David, but the very most authoritative things, the souls—those very things which, even when the visible and seen parts are separated, will not by any device be compelled to be separated for a man;

for the soul is free, and in no way to be shut in, not even if you confine and keep it in a little cell.

For it is by nature, in the primary sense, there where the mind is;

and if it seems to you to be in the little cell, in a secondary sense it appears to you to be there;

in no way being thereby hindered from being there where it should wish to be; rather it can, and may reasonably be believed, to be wholly and altogether only there where, and toward what, its own proper activities lie.

Did he not then most clearly, in fewest words, set forth this very thing which I experienced, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David? These bonds, as I said, will by no means be overcome to separate against one's will, and even willingly one will not readily wish it.

For not, I think, for the worse—which is manifold and more easily turned aside—is there the power of loosing these sacred bonds of friendship; for whose sake the binding did not even take place at the first by the inferior alone;

but for the better, which is abiding and not easily shaken, for whose sake also the forging of the bonds and this sacred knot was rather effected.

Therefore, by the divine word, it was not the soul of David that was knit to the soul of Jonathan;

but on the contrary, the soul of the inferior, undergoing this, is said to be knit to the soul of David.

For the better, being self-sufficient, would not choose to be knit to its own inferior; but the inferior, needing the help that comes from the better, ought, being knit, to be attached to the better;

so that the one, abiding in itself, may enjoy no harm from communion with the inferior, while the other, disordered, being bound out of itself and fitted to the better, harmed in nothing, may by the constraints of the bonds be won over to the better.

Wherefore it belonged to the superior, and not to the lesser, to forge the bonds;

but to be bound belonged to the inferior, so that he has not even any power somehow to be loosed from the bonds.

By certain such constraints this David has bound us fast, both now and from that time, so that we cannot be loosed from his bonds, not even if we should wish.

Nor then, even if we should go abroad, will he release our souls, holding them thus knit fast according to the divine writing.

But thus, having taken us from the beginning and gone about us by every means, when the greater part had been accomplished for him and it seemed we should stay, thereupon, like some good farmer dealing with a piece of fallow land—either land in no way good, but salty and scorched, rocky and crumbly, or land not wholly barren nor unfruitful, but indeed very fertile, yet still untilled and neglected, hardened with thorns and wild thickets and difficult to work;

or like some planter dealing with a plant—either wild and bearing no cultivated fruit, yet not wholly useless, if one skilled in the planter's art should bring a cultivated shoot and graft it in, splitting it in the middle, then joining and binding them, until both, having coalesced, are nourished as one (for thus you would see a kind of mingled tree, bastard indeed, yet fruitful out of the unfruitful, bearing the fruit of the good olive upon wild roots);

or wild indeed, yet not useless to a skilled planter; or even cultivated, yet bearing fruit poorly, or again through lack of skill unpruned, unwatered and parched, choked by the many superfluous shoots growing at random, and hindered from reaching perfection in its growth and bearing fruit by one another;

taking us as such, and going round us with his own husbandman's art, and observing not only the things seen by all and visible on the surface, but digging up and testing also the inmost things—asking, propounding, and listening to our answers—when he perceived something in us not useless, unprofitable or hopeless, he dug, turned over, watered, set everything in motion, applied all his art and care, and worked us into shape;

the thorns and thistles and all the kind of wild weeds or plants—all that our soul, shaken up, sent up and yielded in rank profusion, being as it were disordered and headstrong—he cut out and removed entirely by his refutations and by his restraining;

laying hold of us, and at times very Socratically tripping us up by argument, if anywhere he saw us altogether refractory like some wild horses, bounding off the road and running about hither and thither at random, until by a certain persuasion and constraint, as by a bridle—the argument from our own mouth—he brought us to quietness before him;

applying his arguments to us at first with difficulty and not without pain, as to people unaccustomed and not yet practised in following argument, yet purging us out nonetheless.

And when by these means he had made us fit and well prepared for the reception of the words of truth, then indeed, as upon well-worked, soft soil ready to bring forth the seeds cast upon it, he sowed unsparingly;

making both the casting of the seeds timely, and all the rest of his care timely, working each thing fittingly and with the things proper to the discourse;

all that was dull and bastard in the soul—whether so by nature or thickened by the superfluous nourishments of the body—he sharpened and made lean by the subtle arguments and methods of rational disciplines, which, woven out of the simplest first principles into successions and variously turned, advance into a certain intricate and hard-to-unravel texture, rousing us as though sleeping, and teaching us ever to hold to the matters in hand, in no way slipping away either through their length or through their subtlety.

the uncritical and rash habit—of assenting to whatever chances to come, of whatever sort it may be, even if it happen to be false, and of contradicting often even when some true things have been said—this too he trained out of us, both by these aforesaid and by other manifold arguments;

for this part of philosophy is manifold, accustoming us not to cast forth and again to retract our testimonies at random or as it happens, but, examining accurately not the merely apparent things only (for many things glorious in themselves and of solemn appearance, having rushed into our ears under decorous voices as though true, being yet rotten and false, snatch us up and obtain from us a verdict of truth, and not long after are detected as unsound and untrustworthy, having vainly counterfeited the truth;

and easily showed us to have been ridiculously deceived, and to have testified at random to things to which we least ought);

and again, on the other hand, other things solemn indeed and not vaunting, or set forth in voices not trustworthy, seeming paradoxical and of all things most incredible, and forthwith rejected as false and unworthily insulted, were afterward, by those who tracked them out and considered them accurately, perceived to be of all things most true and simply unassailable—the very things hitherto deemed to be rejected and disreputable—not, then, to examine only the apparent and obtruding things, which are sometimes deceitful and sophistical, but to investigate the inner things, sounding out each, lest anything ring unsound, and first assuring ourselves in them, thus also to agree with those outside and to declare ourselves concerning each thing—this he taught us.

Thus, then, was the critical part of our soul concerning expressions and arguments rationally trained;

not according to the judgements of fine rhetors, as to whether something is Hellenic or barbarous in speech;

that small and unnecessary study;

but this thing most necessary of all to Greeks and barbarians alike, to wise and laymen, and in short (that my discourse may not be long by going through each art and pursuit) to all men who have chosen any kind of life whatsoever;

if indeed all who discuss anything in common are concerned and earnest not to be deceived.

And it is not this thing only—the form which dialectic alone has been allotted to set right;

but again the humble part of our soul—we who were astounded at the grandeur, the wonder-working, and the manifold and all-wise craftsmanship of the cosmos, and who marvelled irrationally and cowered down in amazement, knowing nothing how to reason at all, like irrational animals—he roused and set upright by other disciplines, the natural sciences, making clear each of the things that are, and discerning most wisely into the very first elements, and then interweaving them by reason and traversing both the nature of the whole and of each part, and the manifold mutation and change of the things in the cosmos;

until, leading us on by his clear teaching and arguments—both those he had learned and those he had himself discovered concerning the sacred economy of the whole and the blameless nature—he implanted in our souls a rational wonder in place of an irrational one.

This is the lofty and inspired learning which natural philosophy, most lovely to all, teaches.

What need to mention the things of the sacred sciences—geometry, dear to all and beyond dispute, and astronomy, that travels among the heights? Each of these he imprinted upon our souls, teaching or recalling them—or I know not what I ought to say—making geometry simply the unshaken base of all, and a sure foundation;

and leading us up even to the highest things through astronomy, as by a kind of ladder reaching to heaven, by each of the two studies making heaven accessible to us.

But the things that are of all the most surpassing, and for the sake of which especially the whole philosophic race labours—as out of a varied husbandry, gathering from all the other studies and from long philosophizing the good fruits, namely the divine virtues that concern character, from which comes the untroubled and steadfast state of the soul's impulses;

and which were to render us truly godlike and blessed.

And these too he worked out by his own gentle and wise arguments, not least also most necessary ones, concerning our morals and manners.

And not by arguments only, but already also by deeds, he in a way piloted our impulses, by the very contemplation and consideration of the impulses and passions of the soul, from which especially, when these are recognized, the soul of ours is by nature set right out of its disorder, and transferred from a confused state to one judged and well-ordered;

so that, beholding itself as in a mirror, it might see the very beginnings and roots of evils—all the irrational element in it, from which the absurd passions rise up against us;

and again, how great is the best part of it, the rational, under whose rule it remains in itself unharmed and unaffected;

then, having considered these accurately in itself, it might cast out and put away all the things growing from the worse part—which pour us out through licentiousness, or contract and stifle us through abjectness, such as pleasures and desires, or griefs and fears, and all the rank of evils that follows upon these kinds—rising up against them while they are yet beginning and only just sprouting, and not suffering them to grow even a little, but destroying and making them vanish;

but all that rises in us from the better part, being good, these it might nourish and preserve, fostering them from their beginning and guarding them together until perfection.

For thus might the divine virtues at some time come to the soul: prudence, which is first able to judge these very movements of the soul, the knowledge of good and evil also concerning the things outside us, if there be any, arising from them;

and temperance, the power that rightly chooses these things from the beginning;

and justice, which assigns to each what is fitting;

and the preservation of all these, courage.

Not, then, by arguments merely declared did he accustom us, as though prudence were the knowledge of good and evil, or of things to be done and not to be done;

this being that empty and unprofitable study, if the argument should be apart from the deeds, and prudence not doing the things to be done and turning away from those not to be done, but only furnishing the knowledge of these to those who possess it—such as we see many to be.

And again, that temperance is a kind of knowledge of things to be chosen and not to be chosen—the other philosophers do not very much teach it, and especially the more recent ones, who, though vigorous and strong in their arguments (such as I have often admired, when they prove the virtue of God and of men to be the same, and the wise man on earth to be equal to the first God), are yet unable to hand down either prudence, so that one should also do the things of prudence, or temperance, so that one should also choose the very things he has learned;

and likewise also concerning justice, and further courage.

Not thus did he expound to us the things concerning the virtues by arguments, but rather called us on to the deeds;

and he called us on more by his deeds than by what he said.

And I beg of the philosophers now living—as many as I myself have known and as many as I have heard others tell of—and of other men also, to bear without resentment what is now being said by us.

And let no one suppose that I say these things either out of friendship toward the man, or still out of hostility toward the rest of the philosophers

(of whom, if anyone else, I myself too wish to be a lover for the sake of their arguments, and I wish to praise them, both myself and to hear others saying the finest things about them;

but indeed things are such that the very name of philosophy is outraged to the last degree by almost all, and I came near to choosing to remain wholly a layman, rather than to learn any of the things which these men declare—men whom, on account of the rest of their life, I thought it not even worth approaching, perhaps not rightly thinking so)—only let no one suspect that I say these things out of some ambition, whether of the praises owed to the man, or of that other ambition against the philosophers outside;

but let one be persuaded that we, lest we should seem to flatter, say things even smaller than his deeds, not framing for ourselves words and names and artful occasions of encomium;

I was being taught to praise and to speak an encomium about something—anything that was not true, I willingly forbore.

Therefore not even now, having set myself to praise, do I think I ought simply to exalt this man by the censures of others;

or I should speak ill of the man, comparing his blessed life with the failings of others, in order that I might have something greater to say about him;

but I will confess the very thing I have experienced, apart from any comparison and craftiness of words.

This man first and alone urged me also to philosophize in the philosophy of the Greeks, persuading me by his own character to listen to and bear with the discourse concerning morals—I who would not have been persuaded, so far as concerned the other philosophers (again I confess), not rightly indeed, but unhappily for us, well-nigh so.

For I did not at first fall in with many, but only with a few of those who professed to teach, but who, all of them, made philosophizing stop at words.

But this man first urged me to philosophize also by his arguments, having anticipated by his deeds the exhortation through words;

not merely declaring studied phrases, but not even deigning to speak unless he should do so with a sincere mind, one that would also strive to do the things said, or trying to render himself such as the one who, by his arguments, he describes as the man who will live well; and setting forth, I would have said, a pattern of a wise man;

but since the discourse promised us at the outset truth, not elegance, I do not yet call him a pattern of a wise man;

although indeed I wish to say it is true.

Not, then, an exact pattern, but one greatly wishing to be made like, forcing himself with all earnestness and eagerness, if I must say so, even beyond human power;

and moreover fashioning us also into others such as he—not masters of arguments and knowers of the things concerning the impulses, but of the impulses themselves;

pressing us on toward deeds and toward the arguments, and bringing to bear, in that very contemplation, no small portion of each virtue—perhaps even the whole, if we had had room for it;

compelling us, if I must say so, to act justly by reason of the proper activity of the soul, to which he persuaded us to give ourselves;

leading us away from the busyness of life and the turmoil of the marketplace, and rousing us to look round upon ourselves and to do truly our own proper things.

And that this is to act justly, and that this is the truly just—the doing of one's own proper work—certain of the ancient philosophers also have said, calling it the doing of one's own things, more effective, it seems to me, toward blessedness both for themselves and for those who come to them;

if indeed it belongs to this virtue to assign to each according to worth, and to each his own.

For what else would be the soul's own thing, and what so worthy, as to take care of itself—not looking outward nor meddling with another's affairs, nor, to put it briefly, wronging itself with the worst injustice, but turned inward toward itself, rendering itself to itself and acting justly? Thus, then, by compelling us, if I must say so, to do just things, he educated us;

and again, no less, to be prudent by being toward oneself and willing and trying to know oneself;

this being the best work of philosophy, which is also ascribed to the most oracular of the divinities as an all-wise injunction, namely: 'Know thyself.'

And that this is truly the work of prudence, and that this is the divine prudence, is well said by the ancients;

being truly the same virtue of God and of man, the soul practising to behold itself as in a mirror, and the divine Mind—if it should become worthy of this communion—being mirrored in itself, and tracking out a certain ineffable way of this deification.

And consequently also to be temperate and to play the man;

to be temperate, by preserving this prudence of the soul that knows itself, if ever this should come to it;

for this again is temperance, being a kind of saved prudence;

and to play the man, by abiding in all the aforesaid pursuits, and not falling away either willingly or by any necessity, but keeping them and being masters of the things mentioned;

and this is the virtue—being a kind of saviour and guardian of doctrines.

And indeed he is still about to make us just, prudent, temperate or courageous—through our own slowness and sloth, and that though he was very earnest;

we neither possessing nor yet having come near to any virtue whatsoever, human or divine—far from it;

for these are the greatest and loftiest, and neither is to be grasped nor attained by anyone into whom God does not breathe the power;

and we are neither so naturally fitted, nor yet do we confess ourselves worthy to attain it;

not having done, through sloth and weakness, all the things which those who aspire to the best and woo perfection ought to do.

Just, then, or temperate, or possessing any of the other virtues, we are still about to become;

but that we are lovers, loving with a most keen love—which perhaps belongs to him alone—this wonderful man, friend and spokesman of the virtues, long ago established in us, by implanting a love for his own virtue and for the beauty of justice, whose truly golden face he showed us, and of prudence, desirable to all, and of that most lovely true wisdom, and of godlike temperance, which is the stability and peace of the soul for all who have acquired it, and of most wonderful courage, our endurance, and above all of piety, which they call the mother of the virtues, rightly so saying.

For this is the beginning and end of all the virtues;

for, setting out from this, the rest of the virtues would most easily come to us;

if, desiring and hastening to acquire for ourselves this very thing which every man ought—the man at least who is not godless or pleasure-loving—namely to become a friend and spokesman to God, we should take care of the rest of the virtues;

so that, not unworthy and defiled, but with all virtue and wisdom, as with some good escort and most wise priest, we might draw near to God.

And the end of all things is, I think, nothing other than, having been made like to God with a pure mind, to draw near to God and to abide in Him.

Over and above all his other diligence and earnestness, how could I set forth in words his teaching concerning theology, and his reverence—entering into the very disposition of the man, with what mind and preparation he wished us to learn thoroughly all the discourses concerning the Divine, guarding lest we should somehow be in danger concerning the most necessary thing of all, the knowledge of the Cause of all?

For he deemed it right that we should philosophize, reading with all our might everything of the writings both of philosophers and of poets of old, rejecting nothing and disapproving nothing (for we did not yet even have the power of judgement);

except whatever was of the godless, all those who, having tumbled out at once even from human notions, say that there is no God or providence (for these things it is not even worth reading, lest our soul, which is to be pious, be defiled even in passing, hearing arguments contrary to the worship of God;

for not even those who approach the temples should touch at all any of the profane things, by reason of the piety which they suppose they have);

the things of these men, then, are not at all even worth being numbered among men who have undertaken to be pious;

but all the rest he wished us to meet and converse with, having neither preferred nor again rejected any one race or philosophic school, neither Hellenic nor barbarian, but hearing all.

Wisely this, and very skilfully;

lest some one argument of these or those, heard and honoured by itself and alone, even if it happen not to be true, as though it alone were true, slipping into our soul, should deceive it, and disposing it after its own kind should make us its own, no longer able to withdraw or wash ourselves clean, like wools dyed with some fast dye.

For a dreadful thing and supple is the argument of men, manifold in its sophistries and sharp, which, rushing into the ears, both stamps the mind and lays hold of it, and, having persuaded those once snatched up to love it as true and to abide within, even if it be false and deceitful, like some sorcerer holds sway, having the deceived man himself as its champion;