That men should have taken up so great an opinion, that some of them established three first principles of all things - God, and the exemplar, and matter, as Plato and his disciples did - and asserted that these are incorrupt and uncreated and without beginning, and that God made the world out of matter not as the creator of matter but as a craftsman looking to the exemplar, that is, the idea, which matter they call ὕλην, which is asserted to have given to all things the causes of generation; and that they reckoned the world itself also to be incorrupt and neither created nor made; while others too, as Aristotle with his followers thought fit to argue, posited two principles, matter and form, and a third along with these, which is called the operative, to which it might competently belong to effect what it had judged should be undertaken.
What then is so unfitting as that they should join the eternity of the work with the eternity of the omnipotent God, or should say that the work itself is God, so that they pursued heaven and earth and sea with divine honors? From which it came to pass that they believed the parts of the world to be gods, although concerning the world itself there is no slight question among them. For Pythagoras asserts one world, others say there are innumerable worlds, as Democritus writes, to whom antiquity granted very great authority concerning natural philosophy; and Aristotle ventures to say that the world itself always was and shall be; whereas Plato, on the contrary, presumes to assert that it was not always but shall always be; while very many testify in their writings that it neither always was nor always shall be.
Amid these dissensions of theirs, what estimate of the truth can there be, when some say that the world itself is God, because a divine mind seems, as they think, to be in it; others, that its parts are gods; others, both? In which neither what is the shape of the gods, nor what their number, nor what their place, nor what their life or care can be comprehended - since, by the reckoning of the world, it would have to be understood that god is something rolling, round, burning, driven by certain motions without sense, who is borne along by an alien, not his own, motion. Whence holy Moses, foreseeing by the divine Spirit that these errors of men would come to pass, and had perhaps already begun, at the opening of his discourse thus says:
'In the beginning God made heaven and earth,' comprehending the origin of things, the author of the world, the creation of matter, that you might know that God is before the beginning of the world, or is himself the beginning of all things - just as in the Gospel the Son of God, to those saying 'Who are you?' answered, 'The Beginning, who also speak to you' - and that he himself gave to things the beginning of generation, and that he himself is the creator of the world, not an imitator of matter guided by some idea, out of which he might conform his works not to his own will but to a proposed model. He says beautifully also, 'In the beginning he made,' that he might express the incomprehensible swiftness of the work, since he had set forth the completion of the finished operation sooner than the indication of its beginning. Who said this we ought to consider.
It was assuredly that Moses, learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, whom, taken up from the river, Pharaoh's daughter loved as a son, and, supported by royal resources, desired to have formed and instructed in all the disciplines of secular prudence. He, although he received his name from water, yet did not think it should be said that all things consist of water, as Thales says; and though he was reared in the royal court, yet for love of righteousness he chose to undergo voluntary exile rather than, at the height of tyranny, to acquire the full enjoyment of sin by its delights.
Finally, before he was called to the office of liberating the people, moved by a natural zeal for equity, having avenged on one of his own people the man who was receiving injury, he gave himself over to ill-will and snatched himself from pleasure, and, shunning all the tumults of the royal house, betook himself into the secret place of Ethiopia; and there, removed from all other affairs, he bent his whole mind to the divine knowledge, that he might see the glory of God face to face. To him Scripture testifies that 'no prophet arose any more in Israel like Moses,' who knew the Lord face to face, not in a vision nor in a dream, but speaking mouth to mouth with God most high, neither in an appearance nor through riddles, but graced with the gift of the clear and manifest presence of the Divine.
And so he opened his mouth and poured forth the things which the Lord spoke in him, according to what he had said to him, when he sent him to Pharaoh the king: 'Go, and I will open your mouth and instruct you what you ought to speak.' For if he had received from God what he should say concerning the dismissing of the people, how much more what he should speak concerning heaven? In short, not in the persuasion of human wisdom nor in the simulating disputations of philosophy, but in the demonstration of the Spirit and of power, as a witness of the divine work, he dared to say: 'In the beginning God made heaven and earth.'
He did not, as though the world were to come together by a concourse of atoms, await a late and idle business, nor some disciple of matter, by contemplating which he might fashion the world, but he thought that God the author must be set forth. For the man full of prudence perceived that the divine mind alone contains the substance of things visible and invisible and the causes of things - not, as the philosophers dispute, that a stronger interlocking of atoms supplies the cause of continual perseverance; he judged that they were weaving a spider's web who gave such minute and insubstantial first principles to heaven and earth, which, as they were joined together by chance, so by chance and at random would be dissolved, unless they stood firm in the divine power of their governor.
And not without reason do they not know a governor who have not known God, through whom all things are ruled and governed. Let us therefore follow him who knows both the author and the governor, and let us not be led away by vain opinions. 'In the beginning,' he says. How good the order, that he should first assert that which they were wont to deny, and that they might recognize the beginning to be the beginning of the world, lest men should suppose the world to be without a beginning. Whence David too, when he was speaking of heaven and earth and sea, says: 'You have made all things in wisdom.' He gave therefore a beginning to the world, he gave also to the creature its infirmity, lest we should believe it to be ἄναρχον, that is, without beginning, and uncreated, and a partaker of the divine substance.
And beautifully Scripture added the word 'made,' lest any delay should be thought to have occurred in the making, so that even thus men might understand how incomparable a Worker He was, who completed so great a work in the brief and tiny instant of His operation, so that the effect of His will outran the very perception of time. No one saw Him working, yet recognized the work done. Where then is delay, when you read: 'For He spoke, and they were made; He commanded, and they were created'? Therefore He needs neither the practice of an art nor the exertion of power, who in a moment of His will fulfilled the majesty of so great an operation, making the things that were not to be so swiftly that neither did His will run ahead of His working, nor His working ahead of His will.
You marvel at the work, you seek the Worker—who gave the beginning to so great a work, who made it so swiftly: Scripture at once subjoins, saying 'because God made heaven and earth.' You have heard the Author; you ought not to doubt. This is He in whom Melchizedek blessed Abraham, the father of many nations, saying: 'Blessed be Abraham of the most high God, who made heaven and earth.' And Abraham believed and said: 'I stretch out my hand to the most high God, who made heaven and earth.' You see that no man discovered this, but God announced it. For Melchizedek is God, who is in truth the King of peace and of righteousness, having neither beginning of days nor end. It is no wonder, then, if God, who is without beginning, gave a beginning to all things, so that the things which were not might begin to be.
It is no wonder if God, who contains all things by His power and embraces the universe in His incomprehensible majesty, made these things which are seen, since He also made those which are not seen. And who would deny that the invisible things are more excellent than those which are seen, since the things that are seen are temporal, but the things that are not seen are eternal? Who would doubt that God made these things—He who, speaking through the prophet, said: 'Who has measured the waters with His hand, and the heaven with His palm, and all the earth with His closed fist? Who set the mountains in a balance and the rocks in a scale and the woods on a yoke? Who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been His counselor, or who has instructed Him?' Of whom also we read elsewhere that 'He holds the circuit of the earth, and made the earth as nothing.'
And Jeremiah says: 'The gods that have not made heaven and earth shall perish from the earth and from under this heaven. The Lord who made the earth by His power, and established and ordered it by His wisdom, and by His prudence stretched out the heaven and the multitude of waters in the sky.' And he added: 'Every man has become foolish by his own knowledge.' For he who follows the corruptible things of the world, and from these supposes that he can grasp the truth of the divine nature, how is he not made foolish by the craft of his subtle disputing? Therefore, since you hear so many oracles by which God testifies that He made the world, do not believe Him to be without beginning, because the world is said to be like a sphere, so that no beginning of it appears to exist.
And when it thunders, all things seem to be set in motion as it were in a circle, so that you cannot easily grasp where it begins and where it ends, because it is held impossible to gather by the senses the beginning of a circuit. For you cannot find the beginning of a sphere, nor where the orb of the moon began, nor where it ends in the monthly waning of the moon. Yet even if you yourself cannot grasp it, it does not therefore follow that it did not begin or will never end. If you yourself draw a circle with ink or stylus, or describe it from a center, you will not easily either gather with your eyes or recall with your mind where you began or ended, once an interval has been interposed; and yet you are your own witness that you both began and ended. For though it escapes the senses, it does not undermine the truth.
But the things which have a beginning also have an end, and to those things to which an end is given it is established that a beginning was given. That the world will have an end the Saviour Himself teaches in His Gospel, saying: 'For the fashion of this world passes away,' and 'heaven and earth shall pass away,' and below: 'Behold, I am with you always, even to the consummation of the world.'
How then do they assert that the world is coeternal with God, and associate the creature with the Creator of all, and dispute that it is equal to Him, and think that the material body of the world is to be joined to that invisible and inaccessible divine nature? especially since, according to their own opinion, they cannot deny that, of that whose parts are subject to corruption and mutability, the whole must necessarily be subject to those same passions to which its own portions are liable. Therefore he teaches that there is a beginning, who says: 'In the beginning God made heaven and earth.' Now 'beginning' is referred either to time, or to number, or to foundation, just as in the building of a house the beginning is the foundation.
We learn from the authority of the Scriptures that 'beginning' can also be spoken of as of conversion and of depravity. There is also the beginning of an art, namely the art itself, from which thereafter the work of the various craftsmen began. There is also the beginning of good works, namely the best end; as the beginning of mercy is to please God by what you do, for we are chiefly called forth to confer assistance upon men. There is also a divine virtue which is expressed by this appellation. It is referred to time, if you wish to say at what time God made heaven and earth—that is, at the world's outset, when it began to be made, as Wisdom says: 'When He prepared the heavens, I was with Him.' But if we refer it to number, then it fits that you understand:
First He made heaven and earth, then the hills, regions, and uninhabitable bounds; or thus: before the rest of the visible creatures—day, night, fruit-bearing trees, and the diverse kinds of living things—He made heaven and earth. But if you refer it to foundation, you have read that the beginning of the earth is its foundation, when Wisdom says: 'When He was making the strong foundations of the earth, I was beside Him, arranging all things.' There is also the beginning of good discipline, as is that saying: 'The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord,' since he who fears the Lord turns away from error and directs his ways to the path of virtue. For unless a man fears God, he cannot renounce sin. This we can likewise take of that other saying:
'This month shall be to you the beginning of months,' although this too may be taken of time, since he was speaking of the Lord's Passover, which is celebrated at the beginning of spring. In this beginning of months, then, He made heaven and earth, since the world's outset ought thence to be taken—where there was a springtime temperate climate suitable for all. Hence the year too expressed the image of the world's birth, so that after the wintry frosts and the mists of winter the brighter-than-usual splendor of springtime might shine forth. The world's first rising therefore gave a form to the future courses of the years, so that by that law the alternations of the years should arise, and at the beginning of each year the earth should bring forth the new seedlings of the seeds, where first the Lord God had said:
'Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass yielding seed after its kind and after its likeness, and the fruit-bearing tree making fruit.' And immediately the earth brought forth the herb of grass and the fruit-bearing tree; in which the divine providence both of perpetual moderation and the swiftness of the earth bringing forth supports for us the estimation of springtime's season. For although at any time it was both ready for God to command and for earthly nature to obey, so that amid wintry frosts and the hoarfrosts of winter the earth, warmed by the heavenly command, might bring forth its sprouting offspring, yet it was not in keeping with the eternal arrangement that ground stiffened by rigid ice should suddenly relax into green fruits and mingle blossoms with bristling frosts.
Therefore, that Scripture might show the season of spring at the world's constitution, it says: 'This month is to you the beginning of months, it is the first to you among the months of the year,' calling the springtime season the first month. For it was fitting that the beginning of the year should be the beginning of generation, and that generation itself should be cherished by softer breezes. For the tender beginnings of things could not endure the labor of harsher cold nor sustain the injury of scorching heat.
At the same time it is permissible to add this, since it rightly concurs, that He seems to have entered upon this generation and into these uses at the very season at which from this generation there is a lawful passage into regeneration; since indeed in the spring season the children of Israel left Egypt and passed through the sea, baptized in the cloud and in the sea, as the Apostle said, and at that season the Passover of our Lord Jesus Christ is each year celebrated—that is, the passage of souls from vices to virtue, from the passions of the flesh to the grace and sobriety of the mind, from the leaven of malice and wickedness to truth and sincerity. To the regenerate, therefore, it is said: 'This month is to you the beginning of months, it is the first to you among the months of the year.'
For he who is washed forsakes and abandons that intelligible Pharaoh, the prince of this world, saying: 'I renounce you, devil, and your works and your dominions.' Nor will he henceforth serve him either in the earthly passions of this body or in the errors of a depraved mind—he who, having sunk all his malice in the manner of lead, and being fortified on right and left by good works, strives to pass over the straits of this present age with unhindered footstep. In the book also which is written of Numbers, Scripture says: 'The beginning of the nations is Amalek, and his seed shall perish.'
And certainly Amalek is not the first of all nations, but because by interpretation 'Amalek' is taken to mean 'a people of the wicked'—and the wicked are the nations—see whether we ought to understand the prince of this world, who rules over the nations that do his will, whose seed shall perish. Now his seed are the impious and the unbelieving, to whom the Lord says: 'You are of your father the devil.' There is also a mystical beginning, as is that saying: 'I am the first and the last, the beginning and the end,' and that one especially in the Gospel, where the Lord, being asked who He was, answered: 'The beginning, which also I speak to you.' He is truly and supremely the beginning of all things, because no one is before Him, and the end, because no one is beyond Him.
According to the Gospel, the beginning is of the ways of the Lord in His works, so that through Him the race of men might learn to follow the ways of the Lord and to work the works of God. In this beginning, then—that is, in Christ—God made heaven and earth, because through Him all things were made, and without Him was made nothing that was made; in Him, because in Him all things consist, and He is the firstborn of all creation: whether because He is before all creation, or because He is holy—for the firstborn are holy, as 'Israel is the firstborn,' not because before all, but because holier than the rest. Now the Lord is holy above all creation, even according to His assumption of a body, because He alone is without sin, He alone without vanity, while every creature is subject to vanity.
We can also understand: 'In the beginning God made heaven and earth,' that is, before time, just as the beginning of a road is not yet the road, and the beginning of a house is not yet the house. Finally, others have rendered it 'en kephalaiō,' as it were 'in the head'; by which is signified that the sum of the operation was fulfilled in a brief and tiny instant. There are therefore also those who take 'beginning' not for time but before time, and as 'kephalaion,' or 'head,' so that we may say it is assigned as it were the sum of the work, since the sum of visible things is heaven and earth, which seem to have regard not only to this world but also to the indication of invisible things and as a kind of argument for those things that are not seen, as is that prophetic saying:
'The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament announces the works of His hands.' Following this, the Apostle concluded in the same sense with other words, saying: 'For the invisible things of Him are understood by the things that are made.' For we easily understand Him to be the Author of angels and dominions and powers, who in a moment of His command made this so great beauty of the world to exist out of nothing—that which was not—and granted that things or causes which did not exist should have substance. For this world is a specimen of the divine operation, since while the work is seen, the Worker is preferred.
For just as of those arts some are active, which consist in bodily motion or in the sound of the voice—when the motion or sound has ceased, nothing remains over nor abides for the spectators or hearers—; others more contemplative, which exercise the vigor of the mind; others of such a kind that, even when the function of operation has ceased, the gift of the work appears, as building and weaving, which even when the craftsman is silent display his skill, so that the work bears witness to its maker: similarly this world too is a badge of the divine majesty, so that through it the wisdom of God may be made manifest. Beholding which, the prophet, lifting at the same time the eyes of his mind to the invisible things, said: 'How magnified are Your works, O Lord! You have made all things in wisdom.'
Nor indeed do we read in vain that it was 'made,' since very many of the Gentiles, who would have the world to be coeternal with God as a kind of shadow of the divine power, also assert that it subsists of its own accord. And although they confess that God is its cause, yet they would have it made a cause not out of His will and arrangement, but in such a way that, as the body is the cause of its shadow, the shadow clings to the body and the lightning-flash to its natural light by association rather than by deliberate will. Beautifully, then, does Moses say that 'God made heaven and earth.' He did not say that He caused it to underlie, nor that He furnished a cause to the world that it might be, but 'made'—as one good making what would be useful, as one wise making what He judged best, as one almighty making what He foresaw to be most ample.
But how could it be as it were a shadow, where there was no body, since there cannot be a bodily shadow of the incorporeal God? And how also could the splendor of the incorporeal light be bodily? But if you seek the splendor of God, the Son is the image of the invisible God. As is God, therefore, such also is the image. God is invisible, the image too is invisible; for He is the splendor of the Father's glory and the image of His substance. 'In the beginning,' it says, 'God made heaven and earth.' The world therefore was made and began to be, which was not; but the Word of God was in the beginning and was always. But the angels, dominions, and powers, even though they began at some time, yet already existed when this world was made.
For all things were created and founded, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers; 'all things,' it says, 'were created through Him and unto Him.' What is 'created unto Him'? Because He is the heir of the Father, in that from the Father the inheritance has passed unto Him, as the Father says: 'Ask of Me, and I will give You the nations for Your inheritance.' Yet this inheritance passed from the Father unto the Son, and returns from the Son unto the Father. Excellently, therefore, the Apostle in this passage too called the Son the Author of all things and the One who contains all things by His majesty; and to the Romans he says of the Father: 'For of Him and through Him and unto Him are all things.'
'Of Him' is the beginning and origin of the substance of all things, that is, of His will and power—for all things took their beginning from His will, since there is one God the Father, of whom are all things; for He made them as it were of His own, He who made them whence He willed—'through Him' is the continuation, 'unto Him' the end. Of Him, therefore, is the matter; through Him the operation, which bound and held together the universe; unto Him, because both, as long as He wills, all things abide and consist by His power, and their end returns into the will of God, and by His decision they are dissolved. In the beginning of time, therefore, God made heaven and earth. For time is from this world, not before the world; and a day is a portion of time, not a beginning.
And although by the sequence of the reading we could establish that on the first day the Lord made day and night, which are the alternations of times, and on the second day made the firmament, by which He divided the water which is under heaven and the water which is above heaven, yet it suffices well enough for the present assertion that 'in the beginning' He made heaven—whence comes the prerogative and cause of generation—and made earth, in which the substance of generation might be. For in these were created those four elements, out of which are generated all these things that belong to the world.
Now there are four elements—fire of heaven, air, water, and earth—which in all things are mingled with one another; since indeed even in earth you may find fire, which is frequently struck out from stones and iron, and in heaven, since the sky is fiery and gleaming with shining stars, water can be understood to be present, which is either above the heaven or is frequently sent down to the earth from that higher place in abundant rain. These things we could gather at greater length, if we saw that they profited anything toward the edification of the Church. But because to be occupied with these things is a fruitless business, let us rather bend our mind to those things in which there is the advancement of eternal life.
Concerning the quality and substance of heaven, then, it is enough to bring forth those things which we have found in the writings of Isaiah, who in modest and ordinary words expressed the quality of the heavenly nature, saying that 'He established the heaven like smoke,' wishing to declare its nature to be subtle and not solid. As to its appearance too, it abundantly suffices that he himself spoke of the firmament of heaven, that 'God made the heaven like a vault,' since within the circuit of heaven are enclosed all things that are carried on whether in the sea or on the lands. This is likewise signified when it is read that 'God stretched out the heaven.'
For it is stretched out either like a skin for tabernacles, the dwellings of the saints, or like a book, that the names of many may be written therein, who have merited the grace of Christ by faith and devotion, to whom it is said: 'Rejoice, because your names are written in heaven.' Concerning the quality or position of the earth, too, it profits nothing to treat, with a view to the appearance of what is to come, since it is enough for knowledge that the series of the divine Scriptures comprehends that 'He suspends the earth upon nothing.' What does it profit us to dispute whether it hangs in the air or upon the water, so that thence a controversy might arise—how the nature of air, thin and rather soft, could sustain the earthly mass, or how, if upon the waters, the heavy collapse of the lands is not submerged in the water?
Or how does the wave of the sea not yield to it and, moved from its place, spread itself out upon its sides? Many also have said that the earth is in the midst of the air and remains immovable by its own mass, because it extends here and there with equal motion on every side. Concerning which we think enough has been said by the Lord to His servant Job, when, speaking through the cloud, He said: 'Where were you when I founded the earth? Tell Me, if you have knowledge. Who set its measures, if you know? Or who is it that drew a measuring-line over it? Or upon what are its circles fastened?' And below: 'I shut up the sea with gates, and said: Thus far shall you come and shall not pass over, but in you shall your waves be broken.'
Does not God evidently show that all things subsist by His majesty, not by number, weight, and measure? For the creature does not give the law, but receives it, or keeps what it has received. It is not, then, that because the earth is in the middle it is suspended as if by an equal balance, but because the majesty of God constrains it by the law of His will, so that above what is unstable and void it should remain stable; as David too the prophet bears witness, saying: 'He founded the earth upon its firmness: it shall not be moved for ever and ever.' Here truly God is proclaimed not merely as a craftsman, but as almighty, who suspended the earth not by some center, but by the firmament of His command, nor suffers it to be inclined.
We ought, therefore, to understand not the measure of a center, but of the divine judgment; for it is not a measure of art, but of power—a measure of righteousness, a measure of knowledge—since all things do not pass by His knowledge as though immeasurable, but lie subject to His knowledge as though measured out. For when we read: 'I have made firm its pillars,' we cannot suppose the earth to be truly propped up by pillars, but by that power which underprops and sustains the substance of the earth. Finally, gather even from this how much the constitution of the earth is in the power of God, since it is written: 'Who looks upon the earth and makes it tremble,' and elsewhere: 'Yet once more I shake the earth.'
It does not, therefore, remain immovable by its own balancing, but is frequently moved by the nod and decision of God, as Job too says that 'the Lord moves it from its foundations, and its pillars are shaken'; and elsewhere: 'Hell is naked in His sight, and there is no covering for death. He stretches out the north over the void, hanging the earth upon nothing, binding up the water in His clouds. The pillars of heaven flew away and trembled at His rebuke. By His power He calmed the sea, by His discipline He laid low the monster, and the bars of heaven fear Him.' By the will of God, therefore, the earth remains immovable and stands for ever, according to the sentence of Ecclesiastes; and by the will of God it is moved and totters.
It does not, then, subsist resting upon its own foundations, nor does it remain stable by its own props, but the Lord set it up and holds it together by the firmament of His will, because in His hand are all the ends of the earth. And this simplicity of faith excels all arguments. Let others praise the fact that the earth therefore never falls anywhere, because according to nature it possesses its own region in the middle, since it must necessarily remain in its region and not be inclined to one side, seeing that it is not moved contrary to nature, but according to nature; let them proclaim the excellence of the divine Craftsman and eternal Worker—for what craftsman has not received from Him, or who gave to women the wisdom of weaving or the discipline of variety?
—Yet I, who cannot comprehend the depth of His majesty and the excellence of His art, do not commit myself to balancings of joints and to measures, but esteem all things to be deposited in His will, since His will is the foundation of all things, and on account of Him this world still endures. This too it is permissible to establish by the example of apostolic authority. For it is written that 'the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of Him who subjected it in hope. But the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption,' when the grace of the divine recompense shall come.
But concerning the nature and quality of the substance of heaven, why should I enumerate those things which the philosophers in their disputations have set forth—since some assert that heaven is composed of the four elements, while others bring in a certain fifth nature of a novel body for its constitution, and feign that it is an ethereal body, with which is mingled neither fire nor air nor water nor earth?
For the elements of this world have, each of them, a certain course and use and motion of nature, so that the heavier sink down and are borne downward, while the empty and light raise themselves upward—for there is a motion proper to each—but in the circuit of a sphere these are confounded and lose the force of their own course, since the sphere is rolled in its own orbit, and the upper things are changed into the lower, the lower also into the upper. But of those things whose motions according to nature have been changed, they necessarily bear that the qualities of their substances are wont to be changed. Why, then, do we defend that there is an ethereal body, lest it seem subject to corruption? For that which is composed of corruptible elements must necessarily be dissolved.
For by the very fact that things of diverse nature are the same elements, they cannot have a simple and inviolable motion, since the diverse motion of the elements wars against itself. For it will be sung that one motion cannot be fit for all things, nor agree with elements that are distant from one another; for that which is suited to the light is rendered unsuited to the heavier elements. And so, when motion toward the upper parts is necessary for heaven, it is weighed down by the earthly elements; when a downward course is sought for the lower parts, that fiery vigor is violently drawn down; for it is forced downward contrary to the use of its own nature. But everything that is forced into its contrary is not its nature.
But it is quickly dissolved by necessity and is rent into those things of which it seems to be composed, each part recurring to its own region. Considering these things, therefore, others, judging that the ethereal body of heaven and of the stars could not be stable, introduced a certain fifth nature of body, by which they thought the substance of heaven would remain lasting. But this opinion could not withstand the prophetic sentence, which the divine majesty of our Lord Jesus Christ, our God, also confirmed in the Gospel. For David said: 'In the beginning You, Lord, founded the earth, and the heavens are the works of Your hands. They shall perish, but You remain.'
'And they all shall grow old as a garment, and as a vesture You shall change them, and they shall be changed; but You are the same, and Your years shall not fail.' Which the Lord so confirmed in the Gospel that He said: 'Heaven and earth shall pass away, but My words shall not pass away.' Those, therefore, accomplish nothing who, for the sake of asserting the perpetuity of heaven, thought a fifth ethereal body must be introduced, since they equally see that a portion of a single member, unlike the rest, when adjoined, is wont rather to bring decay to the body. At the same time note this, that the prophet David, when he named the earth in the prior place and afterward the heaven, believed it must be declared to be the work of the Lord.
For when He said 'and they were made,' it makes no difference which you express first, since both were made at the same time—at the same time, lest by this even the least prerogative should seem to be adjudged to heaven, as of a more divine substance, so that it should be esteemed superior by the privilege of being a firstborn creature. Therefore let us leave those men to their own contentions, who refute themselves by mutual disputations; but for us it is enough unto salvation, not the controversy of disputations, but the truth of the precepts; not the cunning of argumentation, but the faith of the mind, that we may serve the Creator rather than the creature, who is God blessed for ever. 'But the earth was invisible and unformed.'
A good craftsman first lays the foundation; afterward, the foundation being laid, he distinguishes the members of the building and adds the adornment. The foundation of the earth being laid, therefore, and the substance of heaven being confirmed—for these two are as it were the hinges of things—he subjoined: 'But the earth was invisible and unformed.' What is 'was'? Lest perchance, framing their opinion into infinity and without beginning, they should say: Behold, that matter—that is, hylē, as the philosophers say—even according to divine Scripture had no beginning. But to those saying this you will answer that it is written: 'Now Cain was a worker of the earth,' and of him who was called Jubal Scripture has it:
This was the father who pointed out the psaltery and the harp; and there was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job. Let them therefore cease to raise a question about the word, especially since Moses had set down beforehand that God made the earth. It was, therefore, from the moment it was made. For if they say that it exists without a beginning, then, saying that not only the Lord but also matter (ὕλη) is without beginning, let them define where it was. If it was in a place, then it is also asserted that the place itself existed without a beginning, in which was the matter of things, which had no beginning. But if it seems absurd to believe this concerning a place, see whether perhaps we ought to imagine a flying earth, which, having no foundation, was suspended by the oarage of wings.
From where, then, shall we get wings for it—unless perhaps we divert here the interpretation of the prophetic saying: 「We have heard wonders from the wings of the earth,」 and that other: 「Woe to the wings of the ships of the earth.」 But even granting that we take it so, in what air did the earth fly? For without air it could not fly; yet air could not as yet exist, because the distinction of the elements had not been made apart from the matter of things, since the very elements themselves had not yet been made. Where, then, was this matter, upheld by the oarage of wings? It was not in the air, because air is a body of the world; and that air is a body, the reading teaches us, since when an arrow is shot toward the spot at which the archer aims, the cleft air at once resolves itself back into itself.
Where, then, was matter (ὕλη), unless perhaps it be said—by some demented presumption—that it was in God? Then God, who is of invisible and inviolable nature, who dwells in light unapproachable, incomprehensible and most pure Spirit, would be the place of the world's matter, and there would be in God a portion of the world—although the mind of His servants is not of this world, as we have it written: 「They are not of this world, even as I also am not of the world.」 How then could invisible things be joined to visible things, and things uncomposed to Him who gave order and beauty to all things? Unless perhaps because He said:
「But the earth was invisible」—let them believe it invisible by its substance, and not for this reason, that, being covered with waters, it could not be visible to bodily eyes, just as very many things set in the depths of the waters escape the sight and keen edge of the eyes. For nothing is invisible to God; but a created thing of the world is reckoned so only by the estimation of a creature. The earth was invisible also because there was not yet light to illumine the world, not yet the sun; for the lights of heaven were made afterward. But if the sun's ray very often illumines even covered things and, by the splendor of its light, brings forth what is sunk in the deep, who can doubt that things which are in the deep cannot be invisible to God?
Unless perhaps we should so understand the earth to be invisible, because it was not yet visited by the word of God and His protection, since it had no man for whose sake the Lord might look upon the earth—as it is written: 「The Lord looked upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand or seek after God.」 And elsewhere He says: 「From heaven He hurled forth judgment: the earth trembled and was still.」 And rightly invisible, because uncomposed, since it had not yet received a fitting form and appearance from its own Maker. And perhaps they may say: Why then did not God—since He spoke and they were made—at once grant to the rising elements their fitting adornment, as though heaven could not, marked with stars, shine forth suddenly as soon as it was created, and the earth be clothed with flowers and fruits?
He could indeed; but for this reason they are declared first to have been made and afterward composed, lest they be believed truly uncreated and without beginning, if the appearance of things had seemed, as it were, unbegotten from the start, and not added afterward. The earth is read of as uncomposed even by those philosophers by whom God is honored with the prerogatives of eternity: what would they say if from the beginning it had flourished in its own preservation? It is described as sunk in waters, as though consigned to a kind of shipwreck of its own first principles, and even now is by some not believed to have been made: what if it had laid claim to a firstborn beauty? There is also this, that God willed us to be imitators of Himself, that we should first make some things and afterward beautify them, lest, while we attempt both at once, we be able to complete neither.
Now our faith grows by a certain gradation. Therefore God first made, afterward beautified, that we may believe the same One to have adorned who made, and to have made who adorned, lest we suppose one to have adorned and another to have created, but that the same One wrought both—first to make, afterward to compose—so that the one might be believed through the other. You have in the Gospel a clear testimony of this matter. When the Lord was about to raise Lazarus, He commanded that the Jews should remove the stone from the tomb, so that, seeing the dead man, they might afterward believe him raised. Then He called Lazarus, and he rose, and came forth with hands and feet bound. Could He not have removed the stone, who could—they contend—raise the dead?
And He who could restore life to the dead, could He not loose the knots of the bindings? To him whose feet were bound He gave a stride; could He not, with the bonds broken, restore him a free gait? But assuredly we observe that He willed first to show the dead man, that they might believe with their own eyes; then to raise him; thirdly, to command that they themselves should loose the bonds of burial—so that amid these stages faith might be poured into the unbelieving, and belief might be born through certain degrees. God therefore first made heaven and earth, yet willed them to be subject—not as everlasting, but as corruptible creation—to a consummation. Hence in the book of Isaiah He says:
「Lift up your eyes to heaven, and look upon the earth beneath: for the heaven was made firm like smoke, but the earth shall grow old like a garment.」 This is the earth which before was uncomposed. For there were not yet seas bounded by their own limit, and therefore the earth was flooded with wandering flood and deep abyss. Consider that even now the earth is wont to bristle with marshy dampness, and is not patient of the plowshare, where the moisture poured upon the land overflows. It was therefore uncomposed, as it were unplowed by the tillage of a skillful farmer, because as yet the tiller was lacking. It was uncomposed, because bare of growing things, neither grassy with the mounds of its banks, nor shaded with groves, nor glad with crops, nor shadowy with the brows of mountains, nor fragrant with flowers, nor pleasing with vineyards.
Rightly uncomposed, since it lacked adornments, since it was without the garlands of gleaming vines. For God willed to show that not even the world itself would have grace, unless the Worker should transform it with varied cultivation. Heaven itself, woven over with clouds, is wont to stir up dread in the eyes and gloom in the soul; the earth drenched with rains is a thing of loathing; the seas troubled by storms—whom do they not strike with fears? Most beautiful is the appearance of things: but what would it be without light, what without temperateness, what without the gathering of the waters, by which before this the very beginnings of this firmament were held submerged? Take the sun from the lands, take from heaven the orbs of the stars: all things bristle with darkness. So was it, before the Lord poured light into this world.
And therefore Scripture says that 「darkness was upon the deep.」 There was darkness, because the brightness of light was wanting; there was darkness, because the air itself is dark. The water itself under the cloud is dark, because the water of the clouds of the air is dark. There were therefore darknesses upon the abysses of the waters. For I do not think that evil powers are to be understood, as though the Lord had created their malice; since malice is certainly not substantial but accidental, having turned aside from the goodness of nature. And so in the constitution of the world let the notion of malice be set aside for the moment, lest we seem to mingle things discolored with the divine working and the most beautiful creature—especially since there follows:
「And the Spirit of God was borne above the waters.」 Even though some take this for the air, and some for the spirit which we breathe and draw in—the breath of this vital air—we nevertheless, in agreement with the opinion of the saints and the faithful, take it to be the Holy Spirit, so that in the constitution of the world the working of the Trinity may shine forth. For when it had been set down beforehand that 「in the beginning God made heaven and earth」—that is, God made it in Christ, or the Son of God who is God made it, or God made it through the Son, since 「all things were made through Him, and without Him was nothing made」—there remained the fullness of the working in the Spirit, as it is written: 「By the word of the Lord the heavens were established, and by the Spirit of His mouth all their host.」
Therefore, just as in the psalm we are taught the working of the Word, which is the Word of God, and the power which the Holy Spirit gave, so here the prophetic oracle echoed back that God spoke and God made; 「the Spirit of God also was borne above the waters.」 For in adorning the vault of heaven and the earth that was to bring forth, the Spirit was beautifully borne above, because through Him the seeds of new births were to germinate—according to what the prophet said: 「Send forth Thy Spirit, and they shall be created, and Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.」 Finally, the Syriac, which is close to the Hebrew and in very many things agrees and harmonizes in expression, has thus: 「And the Spirit of God cherished the waters」—that is, gave them life, so as to gather them into new creatures and by its cherishing quicken them to life.
For we also read that the Holy Spirit is the Creator, when it is said: 「Thou shalt turn me back: the divine Spirit, who made me.」 Whether, then, the Holy Spirit was borne above the waters, the darkness of the contrary powers could not be upon them, where so great a grace claimed a place for itself; or—if some will have it that air is meant—let them answer for what reason He called it 「the Spirit of God,」 when it would have been enough to name it 「spirit」 (breath). These, then, would have it that four elements were first generated by the Lord our God—heaven, earth, sea, air—because fire and air, earth and water, are the causes of things, of which the form and shape of the world consists. Where, then, could the darkness of spiritual wickednesses have a place, when the world was putting on the comeliness of this august form?
Did God create malice at the same time? But it, arising from us, not founded by God the Creator, is generated by the levity of our morals, having no prerogative of a created thing nor authority of a natural substance, but is a vice of mutability and an error of falling away. God wills this to be uprooted from the souls of each one: how should He Himself generate it? The prophet cries out: 「Cease from your malice」; and especially holy David: 「Cease from evil and do good.」 How then do we assign to the Lord its beginning? But this deadly opinion belongs to those who have thought to throw the Church into confusion. Hence the Marcionites, hence the Valentinians, hence that pestilence of the Manichaeans have attempted to bring deadly contagions upon the minds of the saints.
Why do we ourselves seek out the darkness of death in the light of life? Divine Scripture supplies salvation, breathes forth the fragrance of life, that as you read you may take in its sweetness, and not headlong rush into danger. Read simply, O man; do not, as a perverse interpreter, dig a pit for yourself. The saying is simple: that God made heaven and earth—He made what was not, not what was; and 「the earth was invisible」—from the moment it was made, it was, and it was invisible, because the water overflowed and covered it, and 「darkness was poured out upon it,」 because there was not yet the light of day, not yet the sun's ray, which is wont to reveal even things hidden beneath the waters.
What, then, do they mean by saying that God created evil, since from things contrary and adverse nothing adverse to itself is in any way generated? For neither does life generate death, nor light darkness. For the progressions of generations are not like the changes of affections. The latter are turned from contraries into contraries by the deflection of the will; the former are not turned from contraries into adverse things, but, created from things of the same kind—whether their authors or their causes—are referred back into the likeness of their author. What, then, shall we say? For if malice is neither without a beginning, as though uncreated, nor made by God, whence has nature its malice? For no wise man has denied that there are evils in this world, since there is so frequent a falling into death in this age.
But from what we have already said we can gather that it is not a living substance, but a depravity of the mind and soul, straying aside from the path of virtue, which frequently creeps in upon careless souls. The greater peril, then, is not from things external to us, but from ourselves. Within is the adversary, within the author of error, within—I say—shut up in our very selves. Survey your own purpose, examine the state of your mind, set a watch against the thoughts of your mind and the desires of your soul. You yourself are the cause of your own wickedness, you yourself the leader of your own disgraceful deeds and the kindler of your crimes. Why do you summon an alien nature to excuse your own falls?
Would that you did not push yourself on, would that you did not hurl yourself down, would that you did not entangle yourself, either by pursuits run headlong, or by indignation, or by desires which hold us ensnared as in certain nets! And surely it is in our power to moderate our pursuits, to restrain anger, to curb desires; in our power also to indulge luxury, to fan the flames of lust, to inflame anger, or to lend an ear to one who inflames it; to be lifted up rather by pride, to be poured out into savagery rather than to be checked into humility, to love gentleness. Why do you accuse nature, O man? It has, as it were, certain hindrances—old age and weakness.
But old age itself in us is sweeter in character, more useful in counsel, more ready for the constancy of undergoing death, stronger for restraining lusts. Weakness of body, too, is sobriety of mind. Hence the Apostle says: 「When I am weak, then am I strong.」 And so he gloried not in his strengths, but in his weaknesses. The divine answer too shone forth in a saving oracle, that 「strength is made perfect in weakness.」 Those things are to be guarded against which proceed from our own will—the sins of youth and the irrational passions of the body. Of those things, then, of which we are the masters, let us not seek their beginnings from outside, nor divert them onto others, but acknowledge those things which are properly our own.
For what we can refrain from doing if we will not, the choice of that evil we ought to ascribe rather to ourselves than to others. Therefore even in the judgments of this world, guilt binds and punishment condemns those who are voluntary offenders, not those compelled by necessity. For if someone in a fit of madness slays an innocent person, he is not liable to death. Nay more, by the oracle of the divine law itself, if anyone through imprudence has inflicted death, he receives hope of impunity, a means of refuge, that he may be able to escape. Let this, then, be said concerning that which properly seems to be evil; for those things alone are evils which implicate the mind in crime and bind the conscience.
For the rest, no wise man would call poverty, lowliness of birth, sickness, or death evils, nor reckon them in the lot of evils, since their contraries are not held among the greatest goods either—of which some seem to befall us from nature, others from convenience. This digression of ours has not proceeded idly, that we might prove that darkness and the deep are to be taken simply. For there was darkness from the overshadowing of heaven, since every body casts a shadow, by which it overshadows things either neighboring or beneath it, and especially those things which it seems to cover and enclose. Now the vault of heaven encloses, because heaven is stretched out like a vaulted chamber, as we have shown above.
Therefore the dark substance was not primordial, but, as it were a shadow, the murk of darkness followed the body of the world. And so, at the moment of the divine command, the world, rising up, enclosed a shadow within itself—just as if someone in the middle of a field which the noonday sun illumines should suddenly fence off some spot and cover it with the dense foliage of branches: does not the dwelling within become darker, the more splendid the appearance of that place shines outside, by the dreadful canopy overhead? Or whence did men call a cave 「a place shut in on every side」 of this kind, except that it bristles with a black situation and the suffusion of darkness? These darknesses, then, were upon the abysses of the waters.
For that 「the deep」 means a multitude and depth of waters, the reading of the Gospel teaches us, where the demons begged the Savior not to command them to go into the deep. But He who taught that the wills of demons are not to be done commanded them to go into the swine; and the swine hurled themselves into a pool of water, so that what the demons refused they did not escape, but were plunged down by a worthy precipitation. Such, then, was the uncomposed appearance and form of the world. 「And the Spirit of God,」 it says, 「was borne above the waters, and God said: Let there be light.」 Rightly, then, was the Spirit of God sent ahead, where the divine working was to begin. 「Let there be light,」 He says.
From where ought the voice of God in divine Scripture to have begun, except from light? Whence ought the adornment of the world to take its beginning, except from light? For it would be in vain, if it were not seen. God Himself indeed was in light, because He dwells in light unapproachable, and was the true Light, which enlightens every man coming into this world; but He willed that light to come into being which could be apprehended by bodily eyes. He who desires to build some edifice worthy of the dwelling of the head of a household, before he lays the foundation, explores from where he may pour light into it. And that is the first grace, which, if it be lacking, the whole house bristles with deformed neglect. It is light that commends the remaining adornments of the house. 「Let there be light,」 He says.
The full utterance of light signifies not the apparatus of an arrangement, but shines forth in the effect of the working. The Maker of nature spoke light and created it. The word of God is His will, the work of God is nature: He created light, He illumined the darkness. 「And God said: Let there be light. And there was light.」 He did not say it so that the working might follow, but with the word He completed the business. Hence beautifully did David say: 「He spoke, and they were made,」 because the effect fulfilled the word. God, then, is the author of light, but the world is the place and cause of darkness. Yet the good author so spoke 「light」 that, by the light poured in, He might open up the world itself and beautify its appearance.
Suddenly, therefore, the air shone forth, and the darkness took fright at the brightness of the new light; the inpoured radiance of light at once repressed it and as it were plunged it down into the abysses throughout the whole world. Beautifully, then, and properly did He say: 「There was light.」 For just as light swiftly illumines the heaven, the lands, the whole expanse, and in a moment of time, without any apprehension, with the splendor of the rising day spread over the regions, pours itself around our sight, so the rising of that light ought swiftly to have been unfolded. Why do we wonder if God spoke light and a glow flashed out upon the murky world, when, if anyone submerged among the waters should let oil out of his mouth, he makes clearer those things which were covered by the hidden depth?
God said—not that some sound of speech should issue through the organs of the voice, nor that the motion of a tongue should form a heavenly address and a certain din of words should beat upon this air, but that He should make known the cognition of His will by the effect of His working. 「And He divided between the light and the darkness, and God saw the light, that it was good.」 He spoke, and no one heard the sound of a voice; He divided, and no one perceived the efforts of the working; He saw, and no one beheld the intention of His eyes. 「And God saw,」 it says, 「the light, that it was good.」 He neither saw what He was ignorant of, nor approved what He had not known or seen before; but it is proper to good works that they do not need to be blazoned by anything external, but that, when they are seen, they themselves attest their own grace.
That which is approved by sight is more than that which is praised by speech. For it uses its own testimony, not the support of another. But if among us judgment is sent forth by the eyes, by which at once both the grace of beauty and the nature of things is apprehended, how much more does God see all that He approves, and approve all that He sees—according to what is written, that 「the eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous.」 The nature of light is of this kind: that its grace lies not in number, not in measure, not in weight, as other things, but wholly in the seeing of it. And so He expressed in fitting words the nature of light, which pleases by being seen, since it itself furnishes the office of seeing. And not undeservedly could it find for itself so great a herald.
By what right is it first praised? Because it itself brought it about that the other members of the world also are worthy of praises. 「God therefore saw the light」 and illumined it with His own countenance, 「and saw that it was good.」 It is not a partial judgment on God's part, but a general one. And so the grace of light is approved not only in its splendor, but in all its usefulness. Hence too a division is made between light and darkness, so that the nature of light and of darkness, being separated, may seem to have nothing confused within itself. 「And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night,」 so that by the very name He might distinguish day and night. We observe, therefore, that the rising of the light is seen to open the day before the sun;
for the beginnings of day shut off the going-out of night, and the limit of time and the boundary of its state seems to be prescribed for night and for day. The sun makes the day bright, light makes it. Frequently the heaven is covered with clouds, so that the sun is veiled and no ray of it appears; yet light shows the day, and hides the darkness. 「And there was evening and there was morning, one day.」 Some ask why Scripture mentioned evening first, then morning—lest perhaps it seem to signify night before day. And they do not observe, first, that it had set the day before by saying: 「And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night」; and then, that evening is the end of the day and morning the end of the night.
Therefore, in order to give the prerogative and primacy of birth to the day, He first signified the end of the day, after which night was to follow, and then afterward added the end of the night. But Scripture could not prefer night to day to such a degree that it both included the times of day and of night under the appellation of 「day」 and, as it were, claimed them by the authority of the chief name. And that this is a custom of Scripture, that it assigns the appellation to the more excellent, we prove by frequent examples; since both Jacob said: 「The days of my life are few and evil,」 and again: 「All the days of my life」; and David set down: 「the days of my years,」 he did not say 「and nights」—whence we observe that those things which are now delivered in the guise of history have established the force of a law for the future.
The beginning of the day, then, is the voice of God: 「Let there be light. And there was light.」 The end of the day is evening. Now the following day succeeds from the end of the night. But the sentence of God is evident, since He called the light 「day」 first and called the darkness 「night」 second. Admirably too He said 「one,」 not 「first,」 day; for, with a second and third day and thereafter the rest to follow, He could have said 「first」—and this seemed to be of order—but He established a law, that twenty-four hours of day and night should be defined by the name of 「day」 alone, as though He said: the measure of twenty-four hours is the time of one day. For just as the generation of men is reckoned and understood to include also that of women, because the latter are joined to the former as the more excellent, so too the days are numbered and the nights reckoned as joined to them.
As, therefore, one circuit, so one day. For very many even call one week 「one day,」 because it returns into itself as into one day, and as it were recurs sevenfold into itself. Now this is the figure of a circuit: to begin from itself and to return into itself. Hence too Scripture sometimes says 「one age」—for although in other places it calls them 「ages,」 it seems rather to signify the diversities of public states or affairs than to define any successions of ages—since 「the day of the Lord is great and most glorious」; and elsewhere: 「Wherefore do you seek the day of the Lord? And it is darkness and not light.」 For it is manifest that to the evil-conscienced and unworthy that day will be dark, on which innocence shall shine and the guilty mind shall be tormented.
For the rest, Scripture teaches us that that perpetual day of eternal recompense shall be without the interruption of nights and the succession of darkness. And beautifully, being about to call both turns 「one day,」 He concluded it with a morning end, so as to teach both that the day begins from light and ends in light. For the time of day and night is not complete unless it has been filled out. Hence let us too always, as in the day, walk honorably and cast off the works of darkness. For we know that night was given for the repose of the body, not for the performance of anything or of any work, which is run through in sleep and oblivion. Let there not be among us reveling and drunkenness, the bedchamber and unchastity; let us not say:
「Darkness and walls cover us, and who knows whether the Most High will see?」 But let there be in us love of light and care for honorableness, so that, walking as in the day, we may desire that our works shine before God—to whom be honor, praise, glory, and power, with our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, from the ages and now and always and unto all ages of ages. Amen. THE SECOND DAY. The first day—or rather the 「one」 day (for let the prerogative of the prophetic word remain for it)—we have, as we could, brought to a close; in which we have learned the founding of heaven, the creating of earth, the overflowing of the waters, the air poured around, the division made of light and darkness, by the working of God Almighty and of the Lord Jesus Christ, and also of the Holy Spirit.
Who, then, would not marvel that a world disparate in unlike members rises up into one body, and that things so far apart come together, by an indissoluble law of concord and charity, into a fellowship and conjunction of one another, so that things which are separate in nature are knit, as it were by an undivided compassion, into a bond of unity and peace? Or who, beholding these things, could scrutinize their possibility of reason with a feeble wit? All these things the divine power, incomprehensible to human minds and ineffable by our words, has woven together by the authority of its own will. God therefore made heaven and earth, and commanded them to be, as their Author—not as an inventor of figure, but as the Worker of nature.
For how do the operative power of the impassible God and the passible nature of matter agree with each other, as though each borrowed from the other that which it lacked? For if matter is uncreated, then the power of creating matter seems to have been wanting to God, and He borrowed from it the things subject to His working; but if it is uncomposed, it is very strange that matter, coeternal with God, could not confer beauty upon itself—matter which did not receive its substance from a Creator, but possessed it of itself without time. The Worker of all things, then, found more than He conferred: He found matter in which He could work, but conferred the figure which should bring beauty to the things found.
Hence it is to be set apart from the rest as 「one day,」 not to be compared with the rest as a 「first day,」 on which the foundations of all things were laid and the causes began to be, by which the substance of this world and of the whole visible creation is supported. Wherefore let our discourse go forth to the wondrous works of the second day, the eminence of which is to be referred to the praise of the Creator, not according to the capacity of our treatise, but according to Scripture.
You, therefore, I beg, that you would deign to estimate the things we say naturally, and to weigh them with a probable, simple mind and a diligent disposition—not gathering things merely like the truth according to the traditions of philosophy and the empty seduction of persuasive rhetoric, but according to the rule of truth, which is expressed by the oracles of the divine word and poured into the breasts of the faithful by the contemplation of so great a majesty; for it is written: 「Confirm me in Thy words: the unjust have recounted to me their exercises, but not as Thy law, O Lord. All Thy commandments are truth.」
Let us therefore consider the things that have been made, not according to the natures of the elements, but according to Christ, who made all that he willed, abounding in the fullness of his divinity; and let us inquire into the possibility of nature. For when in the Gospel he healed the leper and restored sight to the blind, the crowd that was present and looking on did not recognize any order of medicine, but, marveling at the power of the Lord, gave praise to God, as it is written. Nor was it according to the numbers of the Egyptians, or the conjunctions of the stars, or the measures of the elements, that Moses stretched out his hand for the Red Sea to be divided, but in obedience to the command of divine power. Whence he himself also says:
'Thy right hand, O Lord, is glorified in power; thy right hand, O Lord, hath shattered the enemies.' Lift up therefore thy mind to him, O holy people, and direct toward him thy whole soul. God does not see as man sees: God looks upon the heart, man upon the face. Nor, then, does man see as God sees. Thou hearest that God saw and praised. Do not, therefore, judge by thine own eyes the things that have been made, nor gather opinions about them; the things that God saw and approved, do not think them subject to thy reconsideration. And God said: Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let it divide the water. And it was so. Hear the words of God: 'Let there be,' he says.
This is the language of one who commands, not of one who estimates; he gives orders to nature, he does not bow to possibility; he does not reckon measures, he does not weigh masses. His will is the measure of things, his word is the completion of the work. 'Let there be,' he says, 'a firmament in the midst of the water.' Firm is everything that God establishes. And quite fittingly he set down first that they should make the firmament before he subjoined 'in the midst of the water,' so that thou shouldst first believe the firmament was made by the command of God before thou shouldst doubt because of the flowing quality of the waters. If thou shouldst consider the nature of the elements, how was the firmament made solid amid the waters? They flow forth, it is bound fast; they run, it remains. And 'let it,' he says, 'divide the water.' But water is wont to confound, not to divide.
How does he command what he knows to be contrary according to the principle of the elements? But since his word is the very origin of nature, he rightly claims the right to give law to nature who gave it its origin. But let us first consider what the firmament is: whether it be the same that he called heaven above, or something else, and whether there be two heavens or more. For there are those who say there is one heaven, and that the substance for making another heaven could not have sufficed, since (as they themselves say) there was but one for the breathing elements, because, when the whole was spent upon the higher heaven, nothing remained that might serve for the building of a second or a third heaven.
Others indeed assert that there are innumerable heavens and worlds, men whom their own party deride—for our dispute with them is no greater than theirs is with their own—who with geometric numbers and necessities strive to prove that there cannot be another heaven, that nature cannot allow there to be a second or a third, and that the power of the Maker is not adequate to make many heavens. And who would not laugh at this artful eloquence of theirs, who, while they do not deny that many things of the same kind can be made by men from one and the same cause, yet doubt concerning the Creator of all things whether he could make many heavens—he of whom it is written: 'But the Lord made the heavens,' and elsewhere: 'All things whatsoever he willed, he made.' For what is difficult to him for whom to will is to have done?
Their reasoning about impossibility therefore wavers when they dispute concerning God, of whom it is truly said: 'Nothing is impossible to thee.' And so we cannot deny that there is not only a second but also a third heaven, since the Apostle, by the testimony of his own writings, confirms that he was caught up to the third heaven. David too sets the heavens of heavens in that choir of those who praise God. Imitating him, the philosophers introduced the harmonious motion of the spheres of the five planets and of the sun and moon, by whose orbits, or rather spheres, they relate that all things are bound together.
These spheres, interlocked and as it were inserted into one another, they suppose to be carried backward and in a motion contrary to the rest; and they hold that by the very impulse and motion of these spheres there is rendered a certain sweet sound, full of pleasantness and art and most agreeable melody, since the air, cleft by so artful a motion and tempering the high notes with the low, produces such varied harmonies in even balance that it surpasses all the sweetness of any musical song. If thou shouldst require and demand proof of this matter by being verified to our sense and hearing, they hesitate. An ant, if it were true...
...how is it that, with the motion of the spheres resounding so greatly—since that celestial sphere, to which they say the courses of the stars are fixed, which roll without ceasing, has a more rapid revolution and rouses a sharp sound, while this lunar sphere has the deepest—this sound is not heard by us, although we are accustomed to hear lighter sounds?
If, then, we should demand that the credibility of that argument be proved by our testimony and by the gift of hearing, they reply that our ears have grown deaf and that our sense of hearing has been made too dull because of that habit of the sound conceived from the very beginning of our generation; and they bring forward an example from this, that the Nile, greatest of rivers, in that place where it hurls itself down from the loftiest mountains into those cataracts, by the magnitude of its roar so stops up the ears of those dwelling nearby that they are said to be deprived of the faculty of hearing. But truth itself easily answers them. For we who hear the thunders generated by the collision of clouds—would we not hear the revolutions of such great spheres, which surely, being judged to be carried with greater motion, would rouse all the more violent sounds?
They add moreover that this sound does not reach the earth for this reason: lest men, captivated by its pleasantness and sweetness—which that most swift motion of the heavens produces from the eastern parts even to the west—should abandon their own affairs and works, and lest all things here should remain idle through a certain ecstasy of the human mind toward the celestial sounds. But let us leave the things that are foreign to our pursuit and to the sequence of divine reading to those who are outside: let us cleave to the teaching of the heavenly Scriptures. Our subject, then, is that God said: Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let it divide between water and water. And from this it is discussed whether he calls this the firmament which he had already made before, of which it is written:
'In the beginning God made heaven and earth.' Nor are we misled by the fact that some before us have understood it thus: that, because Scripture had above expressed the heaven created and founded by God as its author, here it has expanded the exposition of the work and of the creation, so that there the sum of the work is briefly comprehended, while here the quality of the operation is set out through the very kinds of the things that concur. But it moves us that another name is signified, and a more solid kind, and a cause is distinguished, and the person of a cooperator is joined. For thus it is written: And God divided between the midst of the water which was under the firmament, and the midst of the water which was above the firmament.
And first they wish to overthrow that which by frequent reading of the Scriptures has grown ingrained and impressed upon our minds, namely that waters cannot be above the heavens; saying that that sphere of heaven is round, in the midst of which is the earth, and that in that circuit water cannot stand, because it must necessarily flow down and slip away, since from higher places there is a descent to lower ones. For how, they ask, can water stand upon a sphere, when the sphere itself revolves? This is that cunning of dialectic. Give me whereby I may answer thee. But if it be not granted, no word is brought to bear.
They ask that it be granted them that the axis of heaven is whirled with rapid motion, while the sphere of the earth is immovable, in order to establish that waters cannot be above the heavens, because all of them would be poured out by the spinning of the axis—as though, even granting them what they demand and answering them according to their own opinions, they could deny that in that height and depth there is both length and breadth, which no one can comprehend except him who is filled with all the fullness of God, as the Apostle says. For who can easily be an estimator of the divine work? There is, then, breadth in the very height of heaven.
There are also—to speak of things we are able to know—many buildings round on the outside and square within, and square on the outside and round within, whose tops are flat, on which water is wont to lodge. These things, however, we say for this reason: that they may notice that their opinions can be refuted by opinions more like the truth, and may cease to measure so great a work of God by the contemplation of human operation and of our own possibility. But we follow the sequence and order of the Scriptures, and we estimate the work by contemplation of its author—what was said, and who said it, and to whom. 'Let there be,' he says, 'a firmament in the midst of the water, and let it divide between the waters.'
I hear that the firmament was made by command, that the water might be divided and the upper separated from the lower. What is more manifest than this? He who commanded the water to be divided, by interposing the firmament in the midst, provided how the divided and separated water might be able to remain. The word of God is the strength of nature and the permanence of substance, for as long as he who established it wills it to remain, as it is written: 'He established them for ever, and for ever and ever; he set a command, and it shall not pass away.' And that thou mayest know that he said this concerning these waters, which thou deniest can be in the upper parts of heaven, hear the verse above: 'Praise him, ye heavens of heavens, and let the waters that are above the heavens praise the name of the Lord.' Did he not say, as it were to thee who opposest:
'For he spoke, and they were made; he commanded, and they were created: he established them for ever, and for ever and ever; he set a command, and it shall not pass away.' Or does the author not seem to thee competent, who would give law to his own work? It is God who speaks—of venerable nature, of inestimable greatness, immense in his rewards, incomprehensible in his works, whose height of wisdom who can easily search out? But he speaks to the Son, that is, to his arm; he speaks to his power; he speaks to his wisdom; he speaks to his justice. And the Son acts as one who is mighty; he acts as the power of God; he acts as the wisdom of God; he acts as the divine justice.
When thou hearest these things, why dost thou marvel if above the firmament of heaven the wave could be suspended by the operation of so great a majesty? Gather these things from others, from those things that are seen by the eyes of men: how, if thou seekest a reason, the wave divided itself for the passing over of the Jews. It is not wont to be of nature that water should separate itself from water, and that in the deep the interfusions of waters should be parted in the midst of the earth. 'The floods froze,' it says, and in the appearance of a firmament reined in their course with an unusual end. Could he not also have freed the Hebrew people in another way? But he wished to show it to thee, so that by that spectacle thou mightest reckon that even those things thou hast not seen are to be believed. The Jordan too, its stream turned back, returned to its own source.
For water to cling fast while it slips away is unusual; to return upward without any barrier is held to be impossible: but what is impossible to him who gave power to the weak, so that the weak one might say: 'I can do all things in him who strengthens me'? Let them tell, surely, how air is compacted into cloud—whether rain is generated by the clouds or gathered in the bosom of the clouds. We see for the most part clouds going forth from the mountains. I ask whether water ascends from the earth, or whether that which is above the heavens descends in a copious shower. If it ascends, surely it is contrary to nature that the heavier water should ascend into the higher regions and be borne by air, since air is finer. Or if water is snatched up by the motion of the whole rapid sphere, then, as it is snatched at the lowest sphere, so it is diffused at the highest.
If it does not cease to be poured out, as they hold, surely it does not cease to be snatched up, because if the axis of heaven is always in motion, the water too is always drawn up. If it descends, then it remains continually above the heavens, having whence to descend. Then what prevents it, if they should confess that water is suspended above the heavens? For by what word do they say that the earth is suspended in the midst and remains immovable, although it is surely heavier than water? By that same reasoning they can say that the water which is above the heavens is not hurled down by the revolution of that celestial sphere. For just as the earth is suspended in the void, or, with its weight balanced, remains immovable on every side, so also the water is poised either by heavier weights or by weights equal to the earth.
And therefore the sea is not easily poured out over the lands, except when it is commanded to go forth. Then, since they themselves say that the sphere of heaven, gleaming with burning stars, revolves, did not divine providence necessarily foresee that water should overflow within the sphere of heaven and above the sphere, to temper those fires of the blazing axis? Therefore, because fire abounds and burns hot, water too overflowed upon the lands, lest the heat of the rising sun and the glittering stars should scorch them, and lest an unwonted vapor should harm the tender beginnings of things. How many springs, rivers, and lakes irrigate the lands, because a certain inner fire heats them! For whence would trees sprout, or grain and crops burst forth, or things once grown be ripened, unless an inner fire also animated them?
This fire is also frequently struck out from stones, and often, when wood is cut, it leaps forth from the wood itself. Therefore, just as the creature fire is necessary, that things ordered and arranged may remain, and that the mildness of heaven may temper the rigor of the waters, so also the overflowing of the waters is not superfluous, lest the one be consumed by the other; for unless there be a fitting measure of each, just as fire dries up water, so also water extinguishes fire. And therefore by weight and measure he weighed all things; for even the drops of the rains are numbered to him, as we read in the book of Job.
Knowing that there would be either an easy failure of things or a dissolution of the universe, if the one were overcome by the other, he so tempered the wastings of each that neither should fire burn up more, nor water be more abundant, than would be a measured diminution of each—a diminution that would both remove the superfluous and reserve the necessary. And so, although such great floods of the greatest rivers burst forth from the lands—the Nile, flooding Egypt with its outpoured stream; the Danube, from the western parts cutting between the barbarian and the Roman peoples until it buries itself in the Black Sea; the Rhine, directing its courses from the ridge of the Alps to the depths of the ocean, a memorable wall of empire against savage nations; the Po, faithful conveyor of maritime traffic for the supplies of Italy:
the Rhône, driven in rapid course, cleaves the straits of the Tyrrhenian Sea, in which no slight danger is said to befall sailors, while the waves of the sea and the streams of the river contend with one another; and likewise from the northern part the Phasis, poured from the Caucasian mountains, with many others hurls itself into the Euxine Sea—it would be tedious to pursue the names of the individual rivers, which either are channeled into our sea or are emptied into the ocean—although, then, there is so great an abundance of waters, yet for the most part the land of the southern region is parched with heat and, dissolved by the burning heat, gapes apart into dust, the labor of the pitiable farmer consumed, so that often, the wells being dried up, the vital relief fails at a parched stream when there is need to drink. And there will indeed be a time when he shall say to the deep:
'Thou shalt be a wilderness, and I will dry up all thy rivers,' as he announced through Isaiah would come to pass. But even before that day comes, appointed by divine decree, the nature of the elements no little contends among itself. And so frequently the world is shaken by the harshness of inundations, or vexed by excessive heat and drought. Do not, therefore, deem the multitude of waters incredible, but look to the force of heat, and thou wilt not be incredulous. Great is what fire absorbs, which ought to be manifest to us even from this: when physicians fasten to the body certain vessels, narrow at the mouth, flatter above, hollow within, having received the light of a small lamp, how that heat snatches into itself all the moisture!
Who, then, would doubt that the fiery ether, boiling with great vapor, would inflame and burn up all things, were it not restrained by a certain law of its author, so that neither rivers nor lakes nor the seas themselves could quench its force? And therefore the water from above, descending with a certain rush, breaks for the most part into such great showers that rivers and lakes are suddenly filled, and the seas themselves overflow. Whence frequently we see even the sun moist and dripping; in which it gives an evident sign that the element has taken water unto itself for its own tempering. But so great is their zeal for assailing the truth that they deny that the sun itself is of a hot nature, on the ground that it is white and not ruddy or glowing like fire.
And therefore they say that it is not fiery by nature, and that if it has any heat, they maintain it comes from the excessive motion of its revolution. This they think must be said in order that it may seem to consume no moisture, because it has no natural heat by which moisture is either diminished or for the most part exhausted. But they accomplish nothing when they compose these things, because it makes no difference whether one has heat from nature or from some affection or some cause, since all fire is a consumer of moisture, or of such material as flame is wont to burn up.
For whether fire, struck out from wood not at all half-burnt but bending in upon itself, be caught by the leaves, the flame still kindles; and if from fire thou kindle a torch, or from the light of a flame thou kindle a light, the same is the appearance and nature of the light, as if it had not been kindled from natural fire, but an accidental cause had generated it. Or at least from this let them contemplate the heat of the sun, in that God appointed for it diverse places and times of its course, lest, if it always lingered in the same places, it should burn them up with daily vapor. The sea itself, they themselves say, has salty and bitter water for this reason: that what flows into the straits from the rivers is consumed by heat, and as much is consumed by the daily vapor as is daily brought in from the diverse courses of the rivers.
This is said to come about by a certain discrimination of the sun, which snatches for itself what is pure and light, and leaves what is heavy and earthy; from which there remains that salty and dry residue, which is without use and the pleasantness of drinking. But let us return to our subject. 'Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water.' Let it not disturb thee, as I have already said, that above he says 'heaven,' here he says 'firmament,' since David also says: 'The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims the works of his hands'; that is, the work of the world, when it is beheld, praises its own author; for his invisible majesty is recognized through the things that are seen.
And it seems to me that the name 'heavens' is common, since Scripture testifies to many heavens, but that 'firmament' is a special name, since here too it has it thus: And he called the firmament heaven; so that above he seems to have said generally that heaven was made in the beginning, in order to comprehend the whole fabric of the celestial creation, while here he means the special solidity of this outer firmament, which is called the firmament of heaven, as we read in the prophetic hymn: 'Blessed art thou in the firmament of heaven.'
For 'heaven,' which in Greek is called οὐρανός, is called in Latin caelum because, as it were, it has the impressed lights of the stars as signs—as it were 'embossed' (caelatum)—just as we call silver 'embossed' (caelatum) when it gleams with raised figures. But οὐρανός is said by way of distinction from that which is seen. By contrast, then, to the earth, which is darker, it is named οὐρανός because it is bright, as being visible. Whence I think this too was said: 'The birds of heaven always see the face of my Father who is in heaven,' and the birds about the firmament of heaven, in that the powers which are in that visible place behold all these things and have things subject to their sight.
Finally, heaven is said to have been shut up in the times of Elijah, when faithlessness reigned under Ahab and Jezebel, while the people served the royal sacrilege, in that no one lifted up his eyes to heaven, no one venerated its author, but they worshiped wood and stones. Whence do we gather this? Because in the curses upon the people of Israel God also said: 'Thy heaven over thy head shall be of bronze, and thy earth of iron,' when the Jewish people, paying the price of their faithlessness, is punished with the inclemency of heaven and the barrenness of the earth; for from heaven comes the cause of fertility.
Finally Moses too, in his blessings, granted this to Joseph: from the bounds of heaven and the dew of the deep of the springs below, and according to the season from the course of the sun, and from the convenient months, and from the top of the mountains and the eternal hills; in that the fertility of the lands is nourished by heavenly governance. An iron heaven, then, is one that pours forth no moisture, when no rain bursts from the clouds. There is also an iron heaven: somewhat dark air, pressed down and cloudy, of a rust-colored hue, when the earth is bound by the rigor of cold. Then moisture seems to be suspended, as it were, over our head and at every moment to threaten. Often too, by the icy blasts of the winds, the stiffening waters are solidified into snow, and when the air is broken, snow is poured down.
For this firmament cannot be broken without some crash. Therefore it is also called the firmament, because it is not weak nor slack. Whence also concerning the thunders—which, when the spirit conceived within the bosom of the clouds dashes against them as it is about to burst forth violently, resound with a great crash—Scripture says: 'Establishing the thunder.' From firmness, then, the firmament is named, or because it has been made firm by divine power, as Scripture also teaches us, saying: 'Praise him in the firmament of his power.' Nor does it escape notice that some have referred the heavens of heavens to the intelligible powers, and the firmament to the operative ones.
And therefore the heavens praise, or declare the glory of God, and proclaim the firmament—yet not as spiritual beings, but as works of the world they declare it, as we said above. Others too have interpreted the waters which are above the heavens as purifying powers. We accept these things as it were for the adornment of our treatise; yet it seems to us not foreign nor absurd if we understand them to be real waters, for that cause which we have mentioned. For dew and frost and cold and heat, according to the prophetic hymn, bless the Lord, and the earth blesses, and the stars bless: and the stars we refer not to intelligible natures, but to the reality.
The dragons too praise the Lord, because their nature and form, when beheld, pour forth no little beauty, or show that reason is present in them. And God saw that it was good. The Son does what the Father wills, the Father praises what the Son does. Nothing of degenerate nature is found in him whose work does not degenerate from the paternal will. He saw, surely—not with bodily eyes did he gaze, but he determined that it befitted the fullness of grace, so that his judgment might be made known to me; for we are wont to dispute even about the things that are divine. And what wonder if those can reconsider concerning the work, who raise questions about the very generation of the Maker? Him they call into judgment; him they attempt to assert to be unequal and degenerate.
Therefore thou readest both 'God said' and 'God made': by the same name of majesty the Father and the Son are honored. And God saw that it was good. He said, as one knowing all things that the Father willed, and he saw, as one holding in knowledge all things that the Son would make, and effecting them by a shared operation. He saw that it was good. He did not, surely, come to know what he did not know, but he approved what was pleasing. The work pleased not as something unknown, since neither was the Father as it were unknown, who was well pleased in the Son, as it is written: 'This is my most beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.' But the Son always knows the will of the Father, and the Father that of the Son, and the Son always hears the Father, and the Father the Son, through the unity of nature, of will, and of substance.
Finally the Son testifies to this in his Gospel, saying to the Father: 'I knew that thou always hearest me.' For the Son is the image of those who praise God. As an image he expresses all things of the Father; as the splendor of glory he illuminates and manifests to us all things of him. The Son too sees the work of the Father, just as the Father sees that of the Son, as the Lord himself declared: 'The Son cannot do anything of himself, except what he sees the Father doing.' He sees, then, the Father doing, and he sees through the secret of the invisible nature, and he likewise hears. Finally he says: 'As I hear, so I judge, and my judgment is true, because I am not alone, but I and the Father who sent me.' This is mystical, that is moral. He saw for me, he approved for me.
What God has approved, do not call reprehensible, since thou rememberest it is written for thee: 'What God has cleansed, do not thou call common.' Therefore let no one blaspheme the good of God. And if the firmament is good, how much more is its Creator good—even though the Arians be unwilling and the Eunomians protest, the fruit of a degenerate root being worse. 'God saw,' it says, 'that it was good.' Craftsmen are wont to make the single parts first and afterward to connect them by a fitting joining—as those who chisel the faces or bodies of men out of marble, or fashion them from bronze, or model them from clay—yet they do not know how the individual members can fit together for them, and what grace the future connection will bring.
And therefore they either dare not praise, or praise only in part; but God, as the estimator of the universe, foreseeing the things that are to be, praises as though already perfected the things that are still in the beginning of the first work, anticipating by his knowledge the end of the work. Nor is it any wonder in him with whom the perfection of things is not in the consummation of the work, but in the predestination of his own will. He praises the single things as fitting for what is to come; he praises the fullness composed of the loveliness of the single things. For this is true beauty: that there be in the single members what is becoming, and in the whole, so that in the single things grace, and in all things the fullness of fitting form, may be praised.
But let our second day now be closed, lest, while we build up the work of the firmament, we make those who hear weaker through flowery speech, while the discourse is drawn out into the night—which, still lacking the light of the moon and stars (for the luminaries of heaven are not yet created), might bring obscurity upon those returning home; and at the same time that bodies may be cared for with food and drink, lest, while the souls are feasting, the frailty of the flesh should complain even of the nocturnal fast. THE THIRD DAY. The third day is born for us today in discourse, which arose in the reading—a glorious day, which freed the earth from shipwreck when God said: 'Let the water which is under heaven be gathered together into one gathering.' Concerning which it pleases us to undertake a preface.
'Let the water be gathered together,' it was said, and it was gathered together; yet often it is said, 'let the people be gathered together,' and they are not gathered. It is no slight shame that the insensible elements obey the command of God, while men, to whom sense was bestowed by that very Author, do not obey. And perhaps it was this shame that brought it about that today you have assembled in greater number, lest, on the very day on which the water was gathered into one gathering, the people should be seen in no way gathered into the Church of the Lord. Nor in the obedience of the water alone do we have an example; for elsewhere also it is written: 'The waters saw thee, O God, the waters saw thee and were afraid.' For it does not seem unlike the truth that this was said of the waters, since elsewhere too the prophet likewise says:
'The sea saw it and fled, Jordan was turned back.' For who does not know that this truly came to pass, that at the crossing of the Hebrews the sea fled? When the wave divided itself, the people passed through with dusty footprints, believing the sea had perished and the waves had fled. Then the Egyptian believed it too, and entered in; but upon him returned the wave that had fled. The water therefore knows how both to be gathered together and to fear and to flee, when God commands. Let us imitate this water, and the one gathering of the Lord, the one Church free of all malice. Here once was water gathered from every valley, from every marsh, from every lake. The valley is heresy, the valley is heathendom, since God is the God of the mountains, not of the valleys.
Indeed, in the Church there is exultation, but in heresy and heathendom there is weeping and mourning. Hence he says: 'He has appointed it in the valley of weeping.' From every valley therefore the catholic people has been gathered. Now there are not many gatherings, but there is one gathering, one Church. Here too it was said: 'Let the water be gathered from every valley,' and a spiritual gathering came to be, one people came to be. From heretics and the nations the Church has been filled. The valley is the stage, the valley is the circus, where the lying horse runs for prize-money, where there is base and abject contention, where strife is a foul deformity. From these therefore, who had been accustomed to cling to the circus, the faith of the Church has grown, and the assembly of the singing flock is increased.
The marsh is luxury, the marsh is intemperance, the marsh is incontinence, in which are the wallowing-places of lusts, the murmurings of beasts, the lurking-dens of passions, where whoever has fallen in is sunk and does not rise again, where the footsteps of the feet slip, the gait of each one drifts, where the coots defile themselves even while they wash, where from above come the mournful moans of doves, where the sluggish tortoise clings in the miry whirlpool; in short, the boar in the marsh, the stag at the springs. From every marsh therefore, where as it were the frogs croaked their old complaint, faith has been gathered, purity has been gathered, and simplicity of soul and mind.
The water was gathered from every lake and from every pit, so that no one might dig a pit for his brother into which he himself should fall, but that all might love one another, all cherish one another, and like one body the diverse members sustain one another. These are men whom delight not the deadly songs of theatrical entertainments, which soften the mind toward loves, but the harmony of the Church, the concordant voice of the people around the praises of God, and a holy life; men to whom it is no pleasure to gaze on purple hangings or costly tapestries, but rather on this most beautiful fabric of the world, this bond of elements differing among themselves, the heaven stretched out like a vault to cover those dwelling in this world, the earth given to be worked, the diffused air, the enclosed seas, this people, the instrument of the divine working, in which the melody of the divine oracle resounds and the Spirit of God works within—that temple, the shrine of the Trinity, the dwelling-place of holiness, the holy Church, in which the heavenly hangings shine forth, of which it was said:
'Enlarge the place of thy tents and of thy hangings; fasten them, spare not; lengthen thy cords and strengthen thy stakes; stretch out yet further to the right and to the left; and thy seed shall possess the nations for an inheritance, and thou shalt inhabit the desolate cities.' She has therefore hangings with which she lifts up the good life, covers sins, and overshadows guilt. This is the Church, which is founded upon the seas and prepared upon the rivers. For she has been confirmed and prepared upon you, who like rivers flow down into her from the pure fountain of the world, of whom it was said: 'The rivers have lifted up, O Lord, the rivers have lifted up their voices, from the voice of many waters.' And he added: 'Wonderful are the surgings of the sea; wonderful is the Lord on high.' Good are the rivers;
for you have drawn from that perennial and full fountain, from which he drew who says to you: 'He that believes in me, as the Scripture says, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.' But this he said of the Spirit, whom they that were to believe in him were beginning to receive. But now, like the streams of the good Jordan, return with me to the source. 'Let the water that is under the heaven,' he says, 'be gathered into one gathering, and let the dry land appear.' And it was so. Perhaps someone has placed too little credence in our earlier discourses, in which we treated of how the earth was invisible for this reason, that it was covered and concealed by the waters, so that it could not be seen by bodily eyes.
For the prophet referred this to himself, that is, to our condition, not to the nature of the divine majesty, which assuredly sees all things. But that you may perceive that we have undertaken this labour of exposition not, as it were, for the sake of displaying our own talent, but for the sake of your instruction, we call to witness the sequence of the reading itself, which plainly proves that after the gathering of the water which was over the earth, and after its diversion into the seas, the dry land appeared. Let them therefore cease to stir up trouble for us with dialectical disputations, saying: How was the earth invisible, when by nature every body has form and colour, and all colour is subject to sight? The voice of God cries out: 'Let the water be gathered together, and let the dry land appear.'
And again the Scripture says: 'The water was gathered into one gathering, and the dry land appeared.' What need was there to repeat it, except that the prophet was meeting the objections of those who watch for them? Does he not seem to say: I did not call it invisible according to its nature, but according to the overspreading of the waters? For at last he added that, the veil being lifted, the dry land appeared which before was not seen. Again they sow other questions, saying: If the water was in diverse gatherings, how—if those gatherings were in higher places—did the water not flow down to that place to which, after the Lord's command, it was diverted?
— for the nature of waters spontaneously slides downward — but if those gatherings were in lower places, how did the water, contrary to its own nature, climb up to higher ones? And so either the natural course had no need of a command, or against nature it could not have advanced by command. To this question I shall easily reply, if they first reply to me whether before the Lord's command the waters had this nature, that they should glide and flow. For this it does not have from the usage of the other elements, but as something special and proper, not from any fixed order, but rather from the will and operation of God most high. They hear what God commanded. But the voice of God is the efficient cause of nature. The effect of his working fulfilled that voice.
The water began to slide and to flow together into one gathering, which before had been spread out over the lands and clung in very many receptacles. I have not before read of its course, I have not before learned of its motion; neither has my eye seen it nor my ear heard it. The water stood in diverse places; at the voice of God it was moved. Does it not seem that the voice of God made for it a nature of this kind? The creature followed the command and made a usage out of the law; for the law of the first constitution left behind a form for the future. Thus once He made day and night: from that time there remains the daily succession of each and the daily renewal. The water too was commanded to run into a gathering:
from that time it runs; the springs glide down into rivers, the rivers run into the straits, the lakes are channelled into the seas; the water goes before itself, presses on, and follows. There is one channel, one body. And although its depth is various, yet the level of its surface is undivided. Hence I think it was called 'aequor' (the level), because its surface is even ('aequalis'). I have replied according to their proposition; let them now reply to me, if they have never seen springs bubbling up from below, water rising from the floor of the ground. What forces it? Whence does it burst out? How does it not fail? How does it come about that the lowest mouths of the soil pour forth the wave? These things are according to the secrets of hidden nature.
Moreover, who does not know that water, descending mostly with rapid force into the depths, raises itself up again into the heights and lifts itself onto the brow of a mountain, and often too, when channelled by the hand of a craftsman, ascends again as much as it has descended? So then, if water is borne by its own force or, by the craftsman's skill, is led and lifted against its own nature, do you marvel if, by the operation of the divine command, something accrued to the usage of its nature which was not in its usage before? Let them now tell me how He gathered together the waters of the sea as in a bottle, as it is written, how He brought forth waters from the rock. He who was able to bring forth from the rock water that was not there, was He not able to lead water that was there?
'He struck the rock, and the waters flowed,' cries David, 'and the torrents overflowed'; and elsewhere: 'The waters shall stand upon the mountains.' You have in the Gospel that, when there was a grave storm and great commotion in the sea, so that the apostles trembled at the peril of shipwreck, they roused the Lord Jesus sleeping in the stern, and rising He commanded the wind and the sea, and the tempest was stilled, and calm restored. He who was able to still the whole sea by His command, was He not able to move the waters by His command? And in the flood too we have received it thus, that the fountains of the deep burst forth, and that afterward He brought in a wind and dried up the water.
If they are unwilling to admit that the nature and usage of the element obeyed and was turned by the command of God, let them at least concede this, that the waters could run by a wind sent upon them, which we daily see in the sea, that the waters there run from whatever quarter the wind has blown. If in the time of Moses, when a strong south wind was stirred up, the sea was dried, in the same manner could not the gathering of the waters be dried, and the water flow into the sea, which afterward was divided from the deep? But let them learn that nature can be changed, since the rock adorned forth waters, and the iron floated upon the waters—which indeed it deserved to do, made passable by prayer, not by command. If then Elisha lifted iron against nature, could not Christ move the waters that yield to Him? Nay, He moved them who could say: 'Lazarus, come forth,' and raised the dead;
for God did what He commanded. And so, by a like example, take what was said: 'Let the water be gathered together,' and it was gathered together. But by saying 'let it be gathered,' He not only moved it from its place, but also established it in a place, that it should not flow past but should remain. And so this belongs to a greater miracle: how all the gatherings flowed down into one gathering, and the one gathering was not filled up. For the Scripture too sets this among the marvels, saying: 'All the torrents go into the sea, and the sea is not filled.' Both therefore are by the command of God: that the water should flow and yet not overflow. The seas, circumscribed therefore by a limit imposed upon them, are shut in, lest, overspread upon the lands, they cleanse all things away and, the tillage of the fields being destroyed, hinder the gift of earthly fruitfulness.
Let them therefore know that it is of the divine command and heavenly operation. For the Lord says through the cloud to Job, among other things also concerning the barrier of the sea: 'I set bounds to it, placing barriers and gates; and I said to it: Thus far shalt thou come and shalt not pass over, but in thyself shall thy waves be broken.' Do we not ourselves see the sea often billowy, so that its wave rises on high like a steep mountain of water, and where it has dashed its onset against the shore, it is dissolved into foam, beaten back by certain bars of low-lying sand, according to that which is written: 'Or will ye not fear me, says the Lord, who set the sand as bounds to the sea?'
And so by the dust of the cheapest sand, basest of all things, the untimely violence of the sea is restrained, and as if by certain reins of the heavenly command it is recalled by the limit prescribed to it, and the motion of the violent flood is broken upon itself and is split back into its receding bays. But unless the force of the heavenly decree restrained it, what would prevent the Red Sea from mingling with the Egyptian deep across the plains of Egypt, which, lying especially in lower valleys, is asserted to be level country? Indeed, they teach this who wished to join these two seas to each other and pour them into one another—Sesostris the Egyptian, who was the more ancient, and Darius the Mede, who, with an eye to greater power, wished to bring into effect what had earlier been attempted by a native.
This matter is an indication that the Indian Sea, in which the Red Sea lies, is higher than the Egyptian level which washes the lower regions. And perhaps it was lest the sea should pour itself out more widely, plunging from the higher to the lower, that each king for this reason recalled his undertakings. I now ask, when He has said: 'Let the water be collected into one gathering,' how could one collection receive the waters spread out through lakes, marshes, and pools, and overspread upon valleys and plains and all the more level places, running in springs and rivers; or how could there be one collection, when even today there are diverse seas?
For we call the ocean a sea, and the Tyrrhenian, and the Adriatic, and the Indian, and the Egyptian, and the Pontus, and the Propontis, and the Hellespont, and the Euxine, the Aegean, the Ionian, the Atlantic; very many also call the Cretan and the northern Caspian a sea. Hence let us consider the words of Scripture, which were weighed in a balanced scale. 'Let the water be collected,' it says, 'into one collection.' There is one continuous and perpetual gathering of the waters, but the bays of the sea are diverse, as a certain one of the secular writers says.
For the Pontus is a most ample bay of our sea, and deservedly in diverse places there are diverse names, because the appellations have clung to the waters from the appellations of the regions; but there is one gathering of the waters, in that the continuous and perpetual wave, from the Indian sea as far as the shore of the Gaditanian coast, and thence into the farthest Red Sea, encloses the circle of the lands by the ocean poured around it; within too the Adriatic is mingled with the Tyrrhenian, and the other seas with the Adriatic, distinct in names, not in waters. Hence you have it beautifully, that God called the gatherings of the waters 'seas.' Thus there is both one general collection, which is called 'sea,' and many collections, which are named 'seas' according to the regions.
For just as many lands, such as Africa, Spain, Thrace, Macedonia, Egypt, Gaul, and Italy, are named according to the appellations of the regions, and yet there is one earth, so many seas are spoken of according to the appellations of the places, and yet there is one sea, as the prophet says, declaring: 'Thine are the heavens, and thine is the earth; the world and the fullness thereof thou hast founded. The north and the sea thou hast created.' And to Job the Lord Himself says: 'I shut up the sea with gates.'
Now, since we have spoken of the one collection, this comes to mind: whether, when the waters had been spread out over nearly all the earth and above the earth—through the lowlands of the fields, the hollows of the mountains, and the level of the plains—the one gathering, now poured out in the manner of a sea, could receive all those waters and empty the lands which before were flooded by the stream spread over the whole. If all things were so covered—for He would not say 'the earth was seen' unless He wished to show it uncovered in all places—if the flood in Noah's time hid even the mountains, when there had already been made a separation of the waters both above the heavens and below the firmament: how much the more cannot it be doubted that even the peaks of the mountains lay hidden by that overspreading?
To what place therefore was all that overflowing of the waters diverted? What receptacles could absorb it, so continuous and connected? Concerning this much discourse could be available to us. First, because the Creator of all things could spread out even the spaces of the lands themselves—which some before us, affirming it, set down as their own opinion. I do not pass over what He could have done; but what He did, which I have not plainly learned from the authority of the Scriptures, I pass over as a secret, lest perchance from this too they should seek for themselves other questions. Yet I assert according to the Scriptures that He could spread out the low places of the regions and the open spaces of the plains, as He Himself says: 'I will go before thee, and I will make the mountains plain.'
The very force of the waters could also make deeper those places which it had occupied, by so great a motion of the waves and so great a surge of the more agitated element, which is wont daily to churn the depths of the sea and turn over the sands from the deep. Then, who can know how far that great sea—undared by sailors and untried by mariners—spreads itself, the sea which encloses the Britains with its frequent flood and stretches itself into the further reaches and the secret places inaccessible even to fables? Who, then, would not reckon how much the sea, poured in, has added to the Lucrine and Avernus in Italy, to Tiberias too in Palestine, and to that lake which between Palestine and Egypt borders on the deserts of Arabia, and to the diverse harbours of Augustus and Trajan and the rest throughout the whole world?
But there are also lakes and pools that are not commingled, that are not mixed with the floods, such as the Larius and Benacus, the Alban too, and many others: how then is there one gathering of the waters? But just as it is said that God made two luminaries, that is, the sun and the moon, although there are assuredly also the lights of the stars, so too one gathering is spoken of, although there are very many; for those things are not numbered which are not compared. 'But, as it seems, since I was speaking of the sea, we have overflowed somewhat: let us return to our subject and consider what it is that the Lord says: 'Let the water be gathered into one gathering, and let the dry land appear'—and He did not say 'the earth.' Who would not notice that this was admirably placed?
For earth can also be mingled with mud, soaked with waters, whose appearance does not show under the overspread waters. But 'the dry land' refers not only to the genus, but also to the species of the earth, so that it should be useful, dry, suitable and fit for cultivation. At the same time provision was made that it should not seem to be dried more by the sun than by the command of God, since it was made dry before the sun was created. Hence David too, distinguishing the sea and the land, says of the Lord God: 'For the sea is his, and he made it, and his hands founded the dry land.' For 'dry' is an expression of nature, while 'earth' is a certain simple naming of the thing, which has in itself its own property.
For just as 'animal' is the signification of a genus, in which there is something proper and excellent—and 'rational' is the property of man—so too 'earth' can be spoken of in common, whether it teem with waters or be deserted and trackless and without water. Therefore even to that which teems with waters it belongs to have dryness; for the water being removed, it begins to be dry, as you have it written: 'He turned rivers into a desert and the springs of water into thirst,' that is, of a watery land He made dry land. The earth therefore has its own proper quality, just as the individual elements also have; for the air too has a moist quality, and water a cold, and fire a hot. And this is the principal property of each individual element, which we gather by reason.
But when we comprehend them by sense and bodily perception, as it were at rest, we find them as if connected and composed: so that earth is dry and cold, water cold and moist, air hot and moist, fire hot and dry. And thus the individual elements are mingled with one another through these conjugal qualities. For earth, since it is of a dry and cold quality, is connected to water through the kinship of the cold quality, and through water to air, because air is moist. Therefore water, as it were by two arms, those of cold and of moisture, seems to embrace the one the earth, the other the air—the earth by cold, the air by moisture.
Air too, midway between two things that by nature war against each other, that is, between water and fire, reconciles each of those elements to itself, because it is joined to water by moisture and to fire by heat. Fire too, since it is by nature hot and dry, is annexed to air by heat, but by dryness is poured back into communion and fellowship with earth; and so by this circuit and a certain dance of concord and fellowship they come together among themselves. Hence too in Greek they are called 'stoicheia,' which in Latin we call 'elementa,' because they agree and accord with one another. We have proceeded thus far because the Scripture says that God called the earth 'dry,' that is, because He named that which is its principal feature by the property of its nature. For its natural property is dryness;
this prerogative is reserved to it. The principal quality therefore is dryness. It is also subordinate to it that it should be cold, but the secondary qualities are not preferred to the primary. But that it should be moist, this it obtains by affinity with the waters. Therefore that is its own, this is foreign: its own, that it is dry; foreign, that it is moist. And so the Author of nature held to that which He first bestowed, because this is from nature, that from a cause. From the principal qualities, therefore, not from the accidental, ought the property of the earth to be defined, so that our knowledge might be informed according to the prerogative of its quality. 'And God saw that it was good.' We do not pass over that some think it is neither in the Hebrew nor in the other translations that the water was gathered into its collections and the dry land appeared.
'And God called the dry land earth, and the collections of the waters he called seas.' For since God said that it was so made, they think it enough that the voice of the Worker should serve as an indication of the operation accomplished. But because in other creatures too there is both the definition of the precept and either the indication or the effect of the operation repeated, therefore we do not think it absurd that what is reported was added, even if in the other translators either the truth may be shown to be supplied or the authority; for we find that many things were not idly added and joined to the Hebrew reading by the seventy men. God saw therefore that the sea was good.
Although the appearance of this element is beautiful—whether when it whitens with rising mounds and crests of waves, and the rocks drip with snowy spray, or when, with the surface rippling under gentler breezes and the soothing of serene calm, it displays a purpling colour, which is often spread before those gazing from afar, when it strikes the neighbouring shores not with violent waves but, as it were, encircles and greets them with peaceful embraces—how sweet the sound, how delightful the murmur, how pleasing and harmonious the resounding echo!—yet I think that the beauty of the creature is not to be estimated by the eyes, but is to be defined as fitting and agreeing according to the reason of the work, by the judgement of the Worker.
The sea is good, therefore: first, because it necessarily supports the lands with moisture, to which through certain hidden veins it secretly supplies a certain not unprofitable sap. The sea is good, as it were the lodging of rivers, the source of showers, the bringer of alluvial deposits, the conveyance of merchandise, by which distant peoples are joined to one another, by which the perils of battles are removed, by which barbaric fury is shut out: a help in necessities, a refuge in dangers, grace in pleasures, healthfulness for one's health, a joining of the separated, a shortcut for travel, an escape for the labouring, a support for the revenues, a nourishment in sterility. From it the rain is transfused into the lands, since from the sea the water is drawn up by the rays of the sun, and what is subtle of it is snatched away: then—
the higher it is lifted, the more it grows cold under the shading of the clouds, and becomes rain, which not only tempers the dryness of the land, but also makes fruitful the hungry fields. Why should I enumerate the islands, which it commonly fringes like necklaces, on which those who renounce the intemperance of the worldly age, set free by the faithful resolve of continence, choose to lie hidden from the world and to avoid the doubtful windings of this life?
The sea, therefore, is the secret place of temperance, the exercise of continence, the retreat of gravity, the harbour of security, the tranquillity of the age, the sobriety of this world; and to faithful and devout men an incentive of devotion, so that, while the waves gently lap with their sound, the songs of those chanting psalms may vie with them, and the islands may applaud with the tranquil chorus of holy waves, and resound with the hymns of the saints. Whence shall I find means to comprehend all the beauty of the sea, which the Worker beheld? And what more? What else is that harmony of the waves but a certain harmony of the people?
Hence the Church is well compared often to the sea, which first, at the throng of the entering people, casts up its waves throughout all its vestibules; then, in the prayer of the whole people, it resounds as if with the waves flowing back, when, with the responses of the psalms, the concordant song of men, women, virgins, and little ones echoes back like the roar of the waves. For what shall I say of this, that the wave washes away sin, and the saving breath of the Holy Spirit breathes upon it? May the Lord grant us this:
that by the swift wind of prosperous outcomes we may be loosed onto the wood (of the ship) and stand in a safe harbour; that we may not know the temptations of spiritual wickedness graver than we can bear; that we may not experience the shipwrecks of faith; that we may have a deep peace; and if ever there be anything by which the grievous waves of this age revive against us, that we may have, watching over us, the Lord Jesus as our pilot, who commands by His word, calms the tempest, and restores the tranquillity of the sea—to whom be honour and glory, praise and perpetuity, from the ages, both now and always, and unto all ages of ages. Amen. As the water departed, it was fitting that form and grace should be given to the earth, that it should cease to be invisible and unformed.
For many also say that this is invisible which does not have form, and so they understand that the earth was invisible, not because it could not be seen by the most high God or by His angels—for as yet men had not been created, nor even cattle—but because it was without its own form. But the form of the earth is the germination and greenness of the field. Hence, that God might make it visible and formed, He says: 'Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, sowing seed according to its kind, and the fruit-bearing tree making fruit according to its kind, whose seed is in itself.' Let us hear the words of truth, the sequence of which is the salvation of those who hear.
For that first voice of God, imparted to the individual creatures to be brought forth, is the law of nature, which has remained for the lands unto every age, destined to give a fixed ordinance for the future succession, in what manner the use of generating or of fructifying might thereafter grow up. The germination, therefore, is first, when the things being born are seen to break forth; then, when the germ has broken forth and advanced, it becomes the herb; the herb too, when it has gone forward a little, becomes hay. How useful, how forceful the voice: 'Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass'—that is, let the earth itself by itself bring it forth, let it seek the aid of no other, let it stand in need of no one's service. For many are accustomed to say:
Unless the kindlier warmth of the sun has thawed the lands and in a certain manner cherished them with its rays, the earth will not be able to bring forth shoots. And for this reason the nations assign divine honor to the sun, because by the power of its heat it penetrates the bosom of the lands and warms the scattered seeds, or loosens the veins of the trees that are stiff with frost. Hear, therefore, God uttering as it were this word: 'Let the foolish speech of mankind, that is yet to come, fall silent; let vain opinion be banished. Before the luminary of the sun is made, let the grass be born; let its prerogative be more ancient than the sun's. Lest the error of men gain strength, let the earth bring forth before it receives the sun's warmth. Let all know that the sun is not the author of things that are born. The clemency of God loosens the lands; the indulgence of God makes the fruits burst forth.'
How does the sun supply the means of life to things that arise, when these were brought forth by the life-giving power of the divine working before the sun came into these uses of life? It is younger than the grasses, younger than the hay. And perhaps someone may wonder why fodder for the cattle was created before food for man. In this we ought first to observe the depth of God, that He neglects not even the least things, just as in the Gospel the Wisdom of God says: 'Behold the birds of the air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and your heavenly Father feedeth them: are not you of much more value than they?' For since they are fed by the grace of God, no one ought to flatter himself on account of his own industry and strength.
Next, because He ought to set the simple sustenance and natural food before the other kinds of food. For this is the food of sobriety, the rest are the food of indulgence and luxury; this is the food common to all living creatures, that other is the food of a few. The simple sustenance of grass and of cheap pot-herbs, then, or of fruit, is an example of frugality and a school of thrift: that all ought to be content with what nature has offered, what the bounty of God first bestowed. That food is wholesome, that food is useful, which drives off diseases, which checks indigestions, brought forth by no labor of men but poured out by a divine gift: grain without sowing, fruit without seed, so sweet and pleasing that even to those who are full it is a delight and a benefit. In short, given to the first courses, it has remained for the second.
But what marvel of this creature shall I weave in, and what proof of the creative Wisdom shall I set forth? For in this kind of shoot and in that gift of the green grass an image of human life is beheld, and a certain emblem of our nature and condition is seen, and a mirror shines forth. That grass and the flower of the hay is a figure of human flesh, just as the good interpreter of the Godhead expressed it through the instrument of his voice, saying: 'Cry.' 'What shall I cry?' 'All flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the hay. The grass is withered and the flower is fallen, but the word of the Lord abideth forever.' The judgment is God's, the voice is human. God says: 'Cry,' but He speaks in Isaiah himself. He answered: 'What shall I cry?' And as though he had heard what he should speak, he added: 'All flesh is grass.'
And truly so; for the glory of man flourishes in the flesh like hay, and what is reckoned to be lofty is, like grass, a slight thing. Premature like a flower, fleeting like hay, it sprouts greenness in appearance, not solidity in fruit; putting forth, like a flower, the show of a gladder life over against decay, destined to set within a briefer span like the grass of the hay, which withers before it is plucked. For what firmness can there be in the flesh? What lasting health? Today you may see a vigorous young man, flourishing in the green of his budding age, of pleasing appearance and sweet complexion: the next day he meets you with face and features changed, and he who the day before seemed to you most elegant in the grace of his comely form, on another day appears pitiable, undone by the weakness of some sickness.
Most men are either broken by toil, or wasted by want, or harassed by indigestion, or ruined by wines, or weakened by old age, or unmanned and rendered effeminate by indulgences, and discolored by luxury. Is it not true that the hay has withered and the flower has fallen? Another, noble in grandfathers and great-grandfathers and honored by the badges of his ancestors, illustrious for the insignia of an ancient lineage, abounding in friends, thronged with clients and guarded on either side, leading out and bringing back a vast household, suddenly troubled by some weight of impending peril, is forsaken by all, abandoned by his comrades, assailed by his nearest kin. Behold, it is true that the life of man, like hay, withers before it is plucked.
There is, too, one who lately overflowing with abundance of riches, his fame for generosity flitting upon the lips of all, illustrious in honors, eminent in offices, exalted on the tribunals, lofty on his throne, esteemed blessed by the peoples, while he is escorted with the cry of heralds, is by a sudden reversal of affairs hurried off into that very prison into which he himself had thrust others, and among his own prisoners bewails the hardship of impending punishment. How great a throng of applauders and the invidious pomp of a crowded populace escorted him home the day before: and a single night abolished the splendor of that glorious escorting, and a sudden pain in his side mingled with his outpoured joys the mournful succession of grievous sorrow.
Of this sort, therefore, is the glory of man, like the flower of the hay, which even when it is borne high adds nothing to one's works, in which no fruit is gained, and which, when it is lost, vanishes—the whole stage-show of man—and which suddenly, abandoning what it was setting upon the rocks from above, also abandons what it was animating within. And would that we might imitate this grass, of which the Lord says: 'Let the earth bring forth the grass of hay sowing seed according to its kind and according to its likeness.' Let us therefore sow seed according to kind. What that kind is, hear Him saying, that we ought to seek that divine thing, whether by any means we may handle it or find it, though it be not far from each one of us. For in Him we live and are and move, as certain of your own poets have said: 'For we are also His offspring.'
According to this kind let us sow seed not in the flesh, but in the spirit. For we who wish to come to eternal life ought to sow not carnal seeds, but spiritual ones. But what the likeness is you are not ignorant, you who were made to the image and likeness of God. The grass answers to its own kind: you do not answer to your kind. A grain of wheat scattered on the earth renders the grace of its own kind: and you degenerate. The crops do not adulterate the purity of their own seed: you adulterate the purity of your soul, the vigor of your mind, the chastity of your body. Do you not recognize that you are the work of Christ? With His own hands, as we read, He formed you: and you, O Manichaean, claim for yourself another author. The Father, God, says to the Son:
'Let us make man to our image and likeness': and you, O Photinian, say that at the constitution of the world Christ did not yet exist; and you, O Eunomian, say that the Son is unlike the Father. For if He is an image, He is surely not unlike, but expresses the Father wholly, whom the Father sealed with the unity of His substance. The Father says 'Let us make': and you deny a co-worker. What the Father said, the Son made: and you deny that He is equal, in whom the Father was well pleased. 'Let the earth,' He says, 'bring forth the grass of hay according to its kind.' In all things that are called things-that-are-born of the earth, the first is the germ. When it has raised itself up a little, it becomes grass, afterward hay, then becomes fruit.
There are things-that-are-born which germinate from a root, like trees that are not planted but are born from the root of other trees. In the reed we see how at its extremity, as it were, a kind of knot forms from the side, and from there another reed germinates. There is therefore in the root a certain power of seed-bearing. Grafted shoots also germinate in the upper parts. To some, then, from the root, to others by a different gift, the chain of succession is acquired. For there is in each thing-that-is-born either a seed or some seed-bearing power, and that according to its kind, so that what is born from it germinates like to those that were sown, or from whose root it springs: from wheat, wheat; from millet, millet; the pear-tree bursts forth with white blossom, the chestnut too rises from the root of a chestnut.
'Let the earth,' He says, 'bring forth the grass of hay according to its kind.' And forthwith the earth, bringing forth, poured itself into new offspring and clothed itself with a mantle of greenness, took on the grace of fruitfulness, and, adorned with diverse shoots, assumed its own ornaments. We marvel that it generated so quickly: how much greater are the miracles, if you regard each thing singly—how, namely, the seeds cast into the earth are dissolved, and, unless they have died, bear no fruit; but if they have been dissolved by a certain death of their own, they rise again into richer fruits. The crumbling clod, then, receives the grain of wheat and, harrowed over, holds it scattered, and the earth cherishes and presses it as in a mother's bosom.
Thence, when that grain has dissolved, it germinates grass—the very appearance, already pleasing, of the sprouting greenness, which at once betrays the kind of what is sown by its likeness to itself, so that at the very beginning of its stock you may recognize of what kind the grass is, and that the fruit may appear in the grass-blades; and little by little it grows up as hay, and, putting forth its stalk, rises and ascends. But when the now jointed ear has lifted itself, certain sheaths are prepared for the future grain, in which the grain is formed within, lest its tender first beginnings either be harmed by the very thing that preserves it, or be scorched by the heat of the sun, or be shaken down by the harshness of the winds or the savage force of the rains.
Certain rows of the ear succeed, formed with marvelous art, both pleasing to the sight and bound together for protection by a kind of knot of natural binding, which divine providence has fashioned. And lest, by the weight of a more numerous crop, the support of the stalks should as it were give way, the stalk itself is enclosed in certain sheaths, so that with doubled strength it may be able to sustain the manifold crop, lest, unequal to the burden, it be bent down to the earth. Then above the very ear a rampart of beards is built up, so that, as if in a certain citadel, it may stand on guard, lest the ear be harmed by the bites of the smaller birds, or be stripped of its fruits, or be trodden underfoot. What shall I say of how the clemency of God has provided for human usefulness?
The earth restores at interest what it has received, multiplied by an accumulation of usury. Men often deceive even him who has lent to them, having wound away with the principal itself; but the earth remains faithful, and if at any time it has not paid—if perchance the harshness of cold has been adverse, or excessive drought, or an immense force of rains—in another year it makes up the losses of the former year. So too, when the yield disappoints the husbandman's hope, the earth is guilty of nothing; and when it smiles, the abundance of the fruitful mother pours itself out into offspring, so that it never brings any loss upon its creditor. But what an appearance the full field presents, what fragrance, what sweetness, what delight to the husbandmen! What can we worthily unfold, if we employ our own discourse?
But we have the testimonies of Scripture, by which we perceive the sweetness of the field likened to the blessing and grace of the saints, holy Isaac saying: 'The smell of my son is as the smell of a full field.' What then shall I describe—the purpling violets, the white lilies, the ruddy roses, the meadows painted now with golden, now with varied, now with yellow flowers, in which you would not know whether the appearance of the flowers or their fragrant power delights you more? The eyes are fed with the pleasing spectacle, far and wide the fragrance is spread, with whose sweetness we are filled. Whence worthily the Lord says: 'And the appearance of the field is with me.' For with Him is what He Himself formed; for what other craftsman could express so great a beauty of each several thing?
Consider the lilies of the field, how great is the whiteness in their petals, how the very petals, packed close, seem to rise from the bottom to the top, so as to express the form of a cup, so that a certain semblance of gold shines forth within, which nevertheless, hedged by the rampart of the flower round about, lies open to no injury. If anyone should pluck this flower and loose it into its petals, what hand of so great a craftsman could reshape the appearance of the lily? Who is so great an imitator of nature as to presume to restore this flower, to which the Lord gave so great a testimony, that He said: 'Not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like one of these'? The most opulent and most wise king is judged inferior to the beauty of this flower.
Why should I enumerate the wholesome juices of herbs, the remedies of shrubs and leaves? A sick camel chews the little branches of the olive and becomes well. Olive-leaves too, gnawed, free locusts from sickness. The leaves of the bramble cast over a serpent kill it. Gnats will not touch you if you boil wormwood with oil and anoint yourself with it. But perhaps some may say: What of the fact that, together with useful things, deadly and pernicious ones too are generated? With the wheat you spread out a thing which you would find harmful among the nourishments of life, and which, unless it had been foreseen, is wont to harm one's health. Among other nourishments of life, too, hellebore is detected. Aconites also frequently deceive and beguile the gatherer.
But this is just as if you should reproach the earth because not all men are good. But take what is more: not all the angels in heaven are good. The sun itself, by its excessive heat, parches the ears of grain and scorches the first beginnings of growing things. The moon too shows the way to travelers, but betrays the ambushes of robbers. Is it therefore fitting that, slighting in these useful things the grace we ought to confess to the Creator, we should disparage the Creator's foresight on account of some harmful effects of foods—as if indeed all things ought to have been brought forth for the sake of the gullet, or as if those things were scant which the divine indulgence has supplied to our belly? Foods have been appointed for us and are known to all, which both produce pleasure and the health of the body.
But each several thing of those that are generated from the earth has a certain special purpose, which according to its own measure fills up the fullness of the whole creation. Some, then, are born for eating, others for another use. Nothing is idle, nothing does the earth germinate in vain. What you think useless to yourself is useful to others; nay, often it is useful to you yourself in another use. What does not aid as food furnishes a medicine; and often the very things that are harmful to you supply harmless fodder to birds or beasts. In short, starlings feed on hemlock, and it is no harm to them, since by the quality of their own body they escape the venom of the deadly juice.
For the power of its juice is cold, which they forestall by a precocious digestion, drawing it through subtle pores into the seat of their heart, before it can assail the vital parts themselves. The skilled, moreover, say that hellebore is food and nourishment for quails, in that by a certain natural tempering of their body they avoid the force of the harmful fodder. For indeed, if by the method of medicine a thing is for the most part tempered to the wholesomeness even of the human body, to which it seems to be contrary, how much more by a property of nature does that benefit toward food which is by a physician's hand turned toward health? By the mandrake, too, sleep is frequently summoned, where the sick are afflicted with the discomfort of sleeplessness.
Why should I speak of opium, which has become known to us too by an almost daily use, since by it the gravest pains of the inner organs are often lulled to sleep? Nor does this escape notice, that by hemlock the frenzies of lusts have for the most part withered away, and by hellebore the inveterate sufferings of a sick body have been dissolved. Not only, therefore, is there no reproach of the Creator in these things, but there is even an increase of thanksgivings, since what was generated for danger and trial works toward the remedies of your salvation. For both that which belongs to danger is turned aside by providence, and that which belongs to salvation is not lost through diligence.
Or have the sheep and goats indeed learned to shun the things harmful to them, and by smell alone, through a certain mystery of nature—though they be devoid of reason—do they nevertheless recognize the means of escaping danger or of guarding their safety, and distinguish alike the harmful and the profitable, so that frequently, when they have felt darts armed with poisons, they are said to seek out known herbs and to apply these as a remedy to their wound? Food, then, is medicine for them, so that you may see the arrows rebound from the wound, the poisons flee and not creep on. In short, to deer their food is venom: the snake flees the deer, but the deer kills the lion; the dragon binds the elephant, by whose fall is the death of the victor.
And therefore with utmost force the struggle is waged on both sides: the one that he may bind the foot, where the fall of the conquered cannot harm him; the other lest he be caught extreme by his hinder foot, or in a narrow defile, where either he himself cannot wheel about to crush the dragon with his heavy tread, or cannot have the aid of an elephant following behind.
Therefore, if irrational animals know with what herbs they may heal themselves or by what aids they may bring help to themselves, does man not know, in whom a rational sense is inborn? Or is he so estranged from the truth that he by no means perceives what things are fit for each one's use? Or is he so ungrateful to the goods of nature that, because the draught of bull's blood is deadly to man, he therefore thinks that the toilsome animal ought either not to have been born, or to have been generated without blood—the animal whose power, useful for the tillage of fields, suited for the use of wagons, sweet for nourishment, supports the husbandmen by its varied service? To these husbandmen God, that they might know His good things, has given all things, saying: 'Let the earth bring forth the grass of hay sowing seed according to its kind.'
For He comprehended not only the spontaneous nourishment which is in herbs and roots and the trees and the rest of the fruits, but also that which is procured by industry and acquired by the labor of rustic cultivation. But how seemly is it that He did not command the lands to pour forth seed and fruit at once, but ordained that the fields should first germinate, then put forth grass, afterward that the seed should grow up according to the property of its own kind, so that the grace of the fields never failed, which should first afford the pleasing comeliness of tranquillity, and afterward the usefulness of fruit. But perhaps someone may say:
How does the earth bring forth seeds according to kind, when for the most part the seeds cast in degenerate, and, when good wheat has been sown, both its appearance is rendered discolored and its form inferior? But if this ever happens, it seems to be referred not to a transformation of the kind, but to a certain sickliness and unevenness of the seed. For it does not cease to be wheat, if it is either scorched by cold or harmed by rain, but it is changed rather in appearance than in kind, in color too and by corruption. In short, grains that have frequently been soaked return into the appearance of their own kind, if they are parched either by the sun or by fires, or, entrusted to careful cultivators, are cherished by the mildness of the air and the richness of fruitful lands.
Thus what had degenerated in the parent is repaired in the offspring. Whence we are in no danger lest that precept of God, whose use has grown ingrained in nature, should be left destitute in the rest of its succession by some defect, since even today in the seeds the purity of their own kind is preserved. For darnel and the rest of the adulterine seeds, which are often mixed with the crops, we have learned by the reading of the Gospel to be called tares; but these have a certain proper kind of their own, not having been transferred from wheat-seed into another kind of seed by a discoloring change, and so drawn off a degenerate nature. In short, the Lord teaches this, saying: 'The kingdom of heaven is like to a man that sowed good seed in his field: but while men slept, his enemy came and oversowed tares among the wheat.'
We certainly perceive that the tares and the wheat seem to be distinct in kind as in names. In short, the servants too said to the householder: 'Lord, didst thou not sow good seed in thy field? Whence then hath it tares?' And he said to them: 'An enemy hath done this.' For one is the seed of the devil, another the seed of Christ, which is sown unto righteousness. In short, one thing the Son of Man, another thing the devil has sown. So diverse is the nature of each seed, that the sower of each is opposite: what Christ sows is the kingdom of God, what the devil sows is sin. How then can the kingdom and sin be of one kind? 'So is the kingdom of God,' He says, 'as if a man should cast vain seed upon the earth.'
There is also a man who sows the word, of whom it is written: 'He that soweth the word soweth.' This man sowed the word upon the earth, when He said: 'Let the earth bring forth grass': and at once the germs of the lands sprouted, and the diverse kinds of things shone forth. Hence the green grace of the meadows supplied an abundance of fodder; thence the yellowing ear of the fields, by the swaying of the richer crop, expressed the image of the heaving sea. Of its own accord the earth supplied every fruit. And although it could not be plowed without a cultivator—for the husbandman was not yet formed—yet, unplowed, it overflowed with rich harvests, and I do not doubt with a greater yield, since the slothfulness of a cultivator could not deprive the lands of their richness.
For now fruitfulness is acquired for each one according to the merit of his labor, where the tillage of the fields is regarded, and negligence or offense is punished either by deluges of rains, or by the dryness of the lands, or by a fall of hail, or by the barrenness of rich soil from whatever cause. But then the earth, by a spontaneous yield, conveyed fruits in all places, since He had given the command who is the fullness of all things. For the word of God bore fruit in the lands, nor was the earth as yet condemned by any curse. For more ancient are the beginnings of the nascent world than our sins, and more recent is the fault on account of which we were condemned to eat our bread in the sweat of our brow, and to know no nourishment without sweat.
And so even today the fruitfulness of the earth works its ancient abundance by the exercise of a spontaneous fertility. For how many things there are which even now are generated of their own accord! But even in those very things which are sought by hand, in great part the divine benefits remain to us, so that the grains themselves are brought in while we rest. This the example of the lesson set before us teaches, the Lord saying that 'so is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed upon the earth and should sleep,' He says, 'and should rise night and day, and the seed should germinate and grow up while he knoweth not. Of its own accord the earth bringeth forth fruit, first the blade, then the ear, then the full wheat in the ear. And when it hath brought forth the fruit, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is at hand.'
While you sleep, therefore, O man, and know it not, the earth of its own accord brings forth its fruits. You sleep and rise, and you marvel at the increases of the grain through the night. We have spoken of the grass of hay; now let us speak of the fruitful tree making fruit according to its kind, whose seed is in itself. He said, and they were made; and suddenly, as above with the flowers and the greenness of the grasses, so here the earth was clothed with woods. The trees ran together, the forests rose up, the peaks of the mountains suddenly put forth leaves. Here the pine, there the cypress, lifted themselves into lofty summits; the cedars and the pitch-pines came together.
The fir-tree too, not content with its earthly roots and airy summit, came forth destined safely to undergo even the chances of the sea by its rowing, and to contend not only with the winds but even with the waves. The laurel also, rising up, gave forth its fragrance, never to be stripped of its own covering. The shady ilexes too put forth a summit bristling with foliage, destined to keep it even in winter seasons. For this nature held as a bond upon each for the rest, which it received under the stroke of the rising world. And thence its prerogative remains to the ilexes—they remain green—so that no winds despoil them of the garment of their own foliage.
There had risen up before, mingled with the earthly flowers, the rose without thorns, and the most beautiful flower bloomed without any deceit; afterward the thorn hedged about the grace of the flower, as if holding forth a mirror of human life, which often pricks the sweetness of its own enjoyment with the neighboring stings of cares. For the elegance of our life is fenced about and hedged in by certain anxieties, so that sadness is joined to its grace. Whence, when each one congratulates himself either on the sweetness of reason or on the successive prosperities of his affairs, it behooves him to remember the fault, on account of which, while we flourished in the pleasantness of paradise, the thorns and brambles of the mind and soul were by the right of condemnation assigned to us.
Therefore, O man, though you be illustrious either by the splendor of nobility, or by the height of power, or by the brilliance of valor, the thorn is always near you, the bramble is always there; always look upon your lower things. You sprout above the thorn, nor does an extended grace remain. In a brief while each one, his bloom of age run through, withers away. Yet, that you may know perishable things to be common to you with the flowers, so also know glad things to be common with the vines, from which is generated the wine that gladdens the heart of man. And would, O man, that you might imitate the example of this kind, that you yourself might bear for yourself the fruit of gladness and delight. In your own self is the sweetness of your grace; from yourself it sprouts, in yourself it remains, within you it is; in your own self is the delight of your conscience to be sought. Therefore He says:
'Drink water out of thine own vessels, and out of the springs of thine own wells.' First of all, nothing is more pleasing than the fragrance of the blooming vine, since from their blossom the pressed-out juice produces a kind of cup which is both for pleasure and for health. Then, who would not marvel that from the kernel of the grape the vine bursts forth even to the topmost summit of the tree, which it cherishes as with a certain embrace and binds with certain arms and surrounds with its limbs, clothes with its tendrils, crowns with garlands of grape-clusters? And it, in imitation of our life, first fixes a living root, then, because its nature is flexible and prone to fall, with certain little hooks, as if with arms, it grips whatever it has grasped, and by these it raises and lifts itself up.
Like to this is the people of the Church, which is planted as by a certain root of faith and is held down by the offshoot of humility, of which the prophet beautifully says: 'Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt and hast planted its roots, and the land was filled. The shadow of it covered the mountains, and its boughs the cedars of God. It stretched out its branches unto the sea, and its shoots unto the river.' And the Lord Himself spoke through Isaiah, saying: 'A vineyard was made for the beloved on a horn, in a fertile place. And I set a wall about it and dug round the vineyard of Sorek and built a tower in the midst of it.' For He surrounded it as with a kind of rampart of the heavenly precepts and with the guard of angels. For the angel of the Lord shall encamp round about them that fear Him.
He set in the Church as a tower the apostles and prophets and teachers, who are wont to stand forth on behalf of the Church's peace. He dug round it, when He unburdened it of the mass of earthly cares; for nothing burdens the mind more than the solicitude of this world and the greed either of money or of power. This is shown to you in the Gospel, when you read that that woman who had a spirit of infirmity was bowed down so that she could not look up again. For her soul was bent, which was inclined toward earthly gains and did not see the heavenly grace. Jesus looked upon her and called her, and at once the woman laid down her earthly burdens. That these men too were burdened with these greeds He shows by those to whom He says:
'Come to me all you that labor and are burdened, and I will refresh you.' Therefore that soul of the woman, as it were dug round about, took breath and was raised up. But the same vine too, when it has been dug round about, is bound up and raised, lest it be bent back to the earth. Some shoots are cut away, others are propagated: those are cut away which run riot in idle luxuriance, those are propagated which the good husbandman has judged fruitful. Why should I describe the rows of props and the grace of the trellising, which truly and manifestly teach that equality is to be preserved in the Church, so that no one rich and honored should exalt himself, no one poor cast himself down, and the ignoble despair? Let there be for all in the Church one and equal liberty, let common justice and grace be imparted to all.
Therefore the tower stands in the midst, that it may carry abroad an example drawn from those rustics, from those fishermen, who were counted worthy to hold the citadel of the virtues. By their examples let our affection be raised up, and let it not lie low, cheap and despicable upon the ground, but let the mind of each one lift itself toward the things above, that it may dare to say: 'But our citizenship is in heaven.' Hence, that it may not be turned back by any storms of the world nor swept away by tempest, by those little keys and rings, as it were by the embraces of charity, it enfolds all its neighbors and finds rest in their union. It is charity, therefore, that binds us to the things above and grafts us into heaven. For 'he who abides in charity, God abides in him.' Wherefore the Lord also says: 'Abide in me, and I in you.'
'As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abide in the vine, so neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches.' Plainly therefore he signified that the example of the vine must be brought forward for the instruction of our life. The vine, first warmed by the mildness of spring, is said to put forth buds, and then from the very shoots to send out fruit on every side; from these the grape, arising, is formed, and growing little by little it retains for a while the sourness of an unripe birth, and cannot grow sweet until it is now ripe and mellowed. Meanwhile the vine is clothed with greening leaves, by which against the cold and every injury it is fortified with no small protection, and is defended from the heat of the sun.
And what is more pleasing as a spectacle, or sweeter in fruit, than to see the clusters hanging like certain necklaces of a beautiful countryside, to pluck grapes gleaming with golden or with purple color? You might think hyacinths and other gems were glittering, that Indian stones were flashing, that the grace of white ones was sparkling; and do you not perceive, O man, that you are admonished by these, lest your last day find your fruits unripe, or the time of full age carry off works that are scanty? For unripe fruit is wont to be the more bitter, nor can anything be sweet save what has grown up to the maturity of perfection.
To this perfected man neither the cold of dreadful death nor the sun of iniquity is wont to do harm, because spiritual grace overshadows him and quenches all the fires of worldly desire and bodily lust, and wards off their burnings. Let all who behold you praise you, and let them marvel at the throngs of the Church as at certain garlands of vine-branches; let each of the faithful gaze upon the fair necklaces of souls, let them delight in the maturity of prudence, the splendor of faith, the comeliness of confession, the beauty of righteousness, the abundance of mercy, so that it may be said to you: 'Your wife is like a fruitful vine on the sides of your house,' inasmuch as you imitate the overflowing abundance of the fruitful vine by the bounty of a copious generosity.
But why do I linger on the vine alone, when all kinds of trees are useful? Some are born for fruit, others are given for use; for even those whose fruit is not more plentiful have nonetheless a more precious use. The cedar is fit for raising the ridge-poles of roofs, because timber of this sort is both tall in its spans and not burdensome to the walls. The cypress too is suitable for paneled ceilings and for adorning gables. Hence the Church also says in the Song: 'The beams of our houses are cedar, our paneled ceilings are cypress,' declaring that those who fly aloft are the fair adornments of her gable, who like beams sustain the summit of the Church by their virtue and adorn her pinnacle. The laurel and the palm are the emblem of victory:
with laurel the heads of victors are crowned, the palm is the adornment of the victorious hand. Hence the Church also says: 'I said, I will go up into the palm tree, I will lay hold of its heights.' She, seeing the eminence of the Word and hoping that she might be able to ascend to its height and to the summit of knowledge, says: 'I will go up into the palm tree,' that she may leave behind all lower things and strive toward the things above, toward the prize of Christ, that she may pluck and taste his sweet fruit; for sweet is the fruit of virtue.
The poplar too, a shady tree, used for the garlands of victors, and the pliant willow, suited for tying up vines—what else do these mystically declare but that the bonds of Christ are good, bonds that are not wont to harm: the bonds of grace, the bonds of charity, that each one may glory in his own bonds, as Paul also gloried, saying: 'Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ'? Bound with these bonds he said: 'Who shall separate us from the charity of Jesus Christ?'—the bonds of abstinence, the bonds of charity. Bound with these bonds David also says: 'Upon the willows in the midst thereof we hung up our instruments.' The boxwood too, useful for engraving the tips of letters, with its smooth material forms the use of a child's hand; whence Scripture says:
'Write upon boxwood,' that at the same time the material itself may admonish you—the material that is always green and is never stripped of its leaves—lest you ever be laid bare through a dissembling of your hope, but that the hope of salvation may ever sprout for you through faith. Why should I enumerate how great is the variety of trees, how diverse and how beautiful the adornment in each: how spreading the beeches, how tall the firs, how leafy the pines, how shady the holm-oaks, how two-colored the poplars, how groved and ever-reviving the chestnut, which, as soon as it has been cut down, is wont to sprout forth a very forest from itself; how in the trees themselves either an aged or a youthful age is perceived;
for in the younger ones the branches are slighter, while in the older ones the limbs are stronger and knotted; in the former the leaves are smooth and outspread, in the latter more contracted and rough. There are also trees which, with an aged and dead root, know not how to repair their own succession if perchance they be cut down; others, which have either a vigorous youth or a more fruitful nature, to which cutting is rather a gain than any loss, so that they are renewed through many heirs by a reviving succession of themselves. There is also, at which you may marvel, a sex in the fruits themselves, there is a distinction of sex in the trees.
For you may see the palm which bears dates often inclining its branches and bowing them down and presenting a likeness of desire and embrace toward that tree which the children of the country folk call the male palm. That palm, therefore, is female and confesses its sex by an appearance of submission. Hence the keepers of the groves cast upon its branches the seeds of dates or the shoots of the males, by which to that female tree there is poured in, as it were, a certain sense of consummation, and the favor of the longed-for union is presented. Endowed with this gift, it is raised up again and lifts its branches and once more raises its foliage to its former state.
Concerning the fig the same opinion holds, and therefore very many are reported to graft a wild fig beside a domestic and fruitful fig, because the fruits of that fecund and domestic fig, when assailed by any breeze or by heat, are said to fall quickly to the ground. Hence those skilled in this remedy, by binding the unripe figs of the wild tree to that fruitful tree, heal its weakness, so that it may be able to preserve its own fruits, which were on the very point of falling if the remedies had been wanting.
By this we are admonished, as by a certain riddle of nature, not to shun those who are separated from our faith and fellowship, since even a Gentile who has been won over—the more grievous an asserter of error he was, the more vehement a defender of the faith he may prove to be; and one of the heretics may be converted, or may strengthen that party to which he has come over by a changed opinion, especially if he has some uprightness of nature, so that his judgment may be lively, if there be added to him the attentiveness of sobriety and the observance of chastity. Pour out, therefore, your zeal upon him deeply, that by the likeness of that fruitful fig you may, from the presence and conjunction of that wild tree, be able to strengthen your own virtue.
For thus your purpose shall not be dissolved, and the fruit of diligence and of grace shall be preserved. How many are the things, moreover, which teach that natural hardness can be tempered by the zeal of diligence—things to which rural husbandry brings an example. For very often pomegranates flower quickly and cannot bear fruit unless they are cultivated with the fitting remedies of the skilled; very often the inner sap fails and a fair outward appearance is held forth. And this is not undeservedly compared to the Church, as you have it said to the Church in the Canticles: 'Your cheeks are like the rind of a pomegranate,' and further on: 'If the vine has flowered, the pomegranates have flowered.'
For the Church holds forth the good radiance of faith and of confession, beautiful with the blood of so many martyrs and, what is more, endowed with the blood of Christ, at once preserving very many fruits within herself by the use of that pome under one defense, and embracing many works of the virtues; for the wise man in spirit conceals his affairs. Almonds too, husbandmen are reported to heal in this fashion, so that from bitter ones the fruits become sweet for them: they bore through the root of the tree and insert into the middle a slip of that tree which the Greeks call peuke and we call the pitch-pine; and when this is done the bitterness of the sap is laid aside. If, then, agriculture transforms the qualities of stocks, can not the pursuits of doctrine and the attentiveness of discipline mitigate any sicknesses of the passions whatever?
Let no one, therefore, placed on the slippery ground either of youth or of intemperance, despair of his own conversion. Timbers are very often turned to better uses: can the hearts of men not be changed? We have taught that not only among trees of diverse kinds there are diversities of fruit, but very often within the same species of trees the fruits are at variance among themselves. For one is the species of male fruits, another of female, as we have already said above concerning dates.
But who could comprehend the variety, the beauty and grace of fruits, and also the usefulness of each, and the property of the fruits and their juices, which seem suited to each purpose: how the more bitter fruits act as medicine for the sick inwards of men and temper the inner swelling and harshness; how again the harshness of the humors of fruits is tempered by sweet ones? Indeed, that medicine is the older which was wont to heal by herbs and juices, nor is any health more secure than that which is taken hold of by the law of nourishment. Hence we are taught according to nature that food alone is medicine for us. Certainly open ulcers are closed by herbs, by herbs internal ills are cured; and therefore it is the work of physicians to know the powers of herbs—for from this the practice of healing has grown up.
But to bring back our pen to simple fruits: some are those which are ripened by the sun, others which, enclosed by shells and rinds, are filled out. The apple and pear, and also all kinds of stone-fruit, are exposed naked to the sun; but the kernel of the nut and of the nutshell, the fruit of the kernel too, though covered by shell and rind, is nevertheless nourished by the heat of the sun; and as much as the kernel is hidden by the density of the pine, so much is it nourished by the heat of the sun. How great, moreover, is the Lord's providence, that where the fruit is softer, there the thickness of the leaf affords a stronger covering for guarding the fruit, which we see in the fruit of the fig. Thus the more delicate things are to be protected by the stronger, as the Lord himself also teaches through Jeremiah, saying:
'Like these good figs, so will I acknowledge the carried-away of Judah, whom I have sent out from this place into the land of the Chaldeans for good, and I will set my eyes upon them for good.' For, as it were, he hedged in the delicate ones with a stronger covering of his mercy, lest the tender fruits should perish too soon. Indeed, of these same ones he says afterwards: 'My delicate ones have walked rough ways,' to whom further on he says: 'Be steadfast, sons, and cry out to the Lord.' For this alone is the inviolable covering against all storms and injuries, the impenetrable defense. Therefore where the fruits are tender, there are the thicker coverings and defenses of leaves; but on the contrary, where the fruits are stronger, there the leaves are more tender, as the apple tree teaches.
For a stronger fruit does not need much help of protection; indeed the very shade of a thicker protection could harm the fruit more. Finally, let the vine-leaf teach us the grace of nature and the inner mysteries of divine wisdom. For we see it so cleft and divided that it seems to show the appearance of three leaves; the middle part is so distinguished that, unless it clung to the lower parts, it would seem separate to those who behold it. And this plan seems preserved by nature, that it may both more easily admit the sun and overspread shade. Finally, its middle part is extended more tall and is thinned at its very summit, so that it presents more of beauty than of covering.
For indeed it seems to portray the appearance of a prize, signifying that the grape holds the primacy among the other hanging fruits; to it, by a certain silent judgment of nature but by an evident sign, are born the appearance and prerogative of victory. With itself, therefore, it has its own prize, by which both a defense is afforded it against injuries and against the violence alike of the air and of the rains, and no hindrance is offered to its receiving the heat of the sun, by which, warmed, it is nourished, colored, and increased. The leaf of the fig too, almost like the vine-leaf, is cut by a four-fold division, which is seen the more clearly the larger the leaf is—though not so as the vine-leaf, with either every edge or its summit curling.
For just as in the fig-leaf the thickness is stronger, so in the vine-leaf the appearance is more elegant. The thickness of the leaf, therefore, serves to repel the injury of the storm, the cleaving serves to warm the fruit into grace. Finally, this kind of pome does not quickly feel the hail, but quickly feels ripening, because it seems both to lie hidden against injuries and to lie open to grace. Why should I describe the diversities of leaves—how some are round, others longer, some flexible, others stiffer, some not easily falling in any winds, others which are shaken off by the slight motion of the breezes?
It is inexplicable to inquire into the properties of single things, and either to distinguish their diversities by manifest testimony, or to lay open their hidden and secret causes by unfailing proofs. Water, to be sure, is one and the same, and yet very often changes itself into diverse appearances: now yellow among the sands, now foaming among the rocks, now greener among the groves, now varicolored among the flowering fields, now more shining among the lilies, now more glowing red among the roses, now clearer in the grass, now more turbid in the marsh, now more transparent in the spring, now darker in the sea, running on having taken up the color of the places through which it flows.
Its temperature too it changes by like reason, so that among warm things it grows hot, among shady things it grows cold, struck back by the sun it boils up, watered by snows it grows white with an icy moisture. And how its very taste is altered, so that now it is harsher, now more bitter, now stronger, now more austere, now sweeter, being varied according to the quality of the substances in which it has been infused! It is made rough by unripe juices, by the pounded rind of the nut and crushed leaves; it becomes bitter as wormwood, stronger than wine, more austere by other things, it grows heavy with poison, it grows sweet with honey. But if mastic, the fruit of the terebinth too, or the inner part of the nut be mixed with it, it is easily transfused into the soft nature of oil.
But since it is the nurse of all shrubs, it ministers diverse uses to each. If it wash the roots or descend poured down from the clouds, it gives distinct powers to all: it fattens the root, advances the trunk, spreads out the branches, makes the leaves grow green, nourishes the seeds for the fruit, and is wont to make the pome increase. Therefore, since the same is the nurse of all, some kinds of trees bear more bitter juices, others sweeter, others slow, others early. Their very sweetnesses too differ among themselves. One sweetness is in the vine, another in the olive, another in cherries, another in the fig, distinct in the apple, unequal in the date. The very touch of water is in one place gentle, in another harsher, very often it is more unctuous. In weight too it frequently differs as in appearance;
for in very many places it is reckoned heavier, in very many lighter. It is no wonder, therefore, if, when it differs in itself, the kinds of trees also differ among themselves which are produced by the watering of the same water. And when there is one cause of all, the use of each is diverse, the nature is diverse. The tear of the cherry tree has one force, that of the mastic another. The fragrant woods of the East too are reported to sweat a different drop of balsam, and a diverse kind of tears the shrubs of ferns in Egypt and Libya weep by a certain force of a more secret nature. But why should I relate to you—though the discourse be a mild one—that amber is the tear of a shrub, and that the tear hardens into the solidity of so great a material?
Nor is this asserted by light testimonies, since leaves, or the tiniest portions of twigs, or certain small kinds of living creatures are often found in amber, which it seems, while it was still a softer drop, to have received and, once solidified, to have held fast. But why do I decide upon it with cheap discourse, when nature's reckoning is lofty and precious, when this discourse of mine is nourished by human wit, but divine providence has formed the nature of all things? Hence the diffusion of words must be restrained as by certain reins, lest what seems to have been divinely conferred upon Solomon especially by the gift of wisdom, we should seem usurpingly to expound—the differences of trees and the powers of roots and whatsoever things are hidden and unforeseen, as it is written.
These things, however, are not even by him made manifest and disclosed, so that it seems to me that he could discourse concerning the kinds of shrubs, but could not more fully unfold the reckonings of every creature. But if by the irrigations of waters both the crops are very often more luxuriant and the beans are green, and the manifold grace of gardens is roused and revived, if the bank of overflowing rivers is adorned with greening beds, how at the word of the Lord—which is more abounding than every course of waters—suddenly all the creation of shrubs burst into flower!
The fields hastened to put forth the grain not committed to them; the unknown kinds of garden vegetables, the wonders of flowers, hastened to sprout; the banks of rivers to clothe themselves with myrtle-groves; the trees hastened to rise quickly, to clothe themselves quickly in flower, to minister sustenance for men, fodder for cattle. The fruit is common to all, the use too is given to all. At once both did the trees sprout: one thing whereby we might be fed, another whereby by the cooling shade we might be defended from the sun. Food is in the fruit, the use of pleasantness in the leaves; yet because the providence of the Creator was foreknowing that the greed of men especially would claim the fruit for itself, he provided for the remaining living creatures, that he might grant them a special nourishment.
And so there is for these no scanty food in the leaves and in the woodland barks; those things too which were to be of use for healing—that is, juices, tears, and shoots—were likewise ministered. And so those things which afterwards by experience, use, and example we have come to know as useful, these the Creator from the beginning, by the majesty of his foreknowledge, commanded to come forth from the bosom of the earths for whatever use he should grant them apt.
And since the Lord commanded that the earth should bring forth the grass of hay and the fruit-bearing tree making fruit according to its kind, whose seed is in it—lest perhaps someone should say that in many trees neither fruit nor seed seems to be seen, and should think the divine precept to waver in some point, so that it be doubtful as to its truth—let him consider this: that it can by no means come to pass that not all things which generate either use seeds or have certain things which seem to agree with the power of seeds; and if anyone attentively observe this, he will be able to grasp it by manifest testimony.
Willows seem to have nothing of seed, yet they have in their leaves a certain grain which has the power of a seed, so that, when it is committed to the earth, a tree rises up as if from a planted slip, and rouses itself as if from a seed. And so by that grain the first root coalesces; from the root sprouts not only the willow, but also a forest of the other trees of this kind after the same likeness. The generation of the root too has the power of a seed, whence very many have propagated the increase of their grove by this sowing. Great is the power of God in single things.
Nor let anyone wonder if I have said that there is great power of God in shrubs, since he declared that there was great power of his even in locusts and in the cankerworm, inasmuch as the offense against the divine majesty was atoned for by the great means of Jewish barrenness and want. For great is the power of patience, great the power of providence. For unworthy were they who should enjoy earthly fecundity—who had wounded the Creator of the fattened lands. And truly great is he who avenges by a pitiable famine so great a wickedness of impiety. And so, if by the great power of God the earth generated the barren cankerworm, how much more does it produce by great power the things which are fruitful.
Who, beholding the pine cone, would not be amazed at so great an art ingrafted and impressed upon nature by the divine precept—how from the very center, though by distinct measurements, it rises up with an equal binding, by which it cherishes its own fruits? And so throughout the circuit the same appearance and order is preserved, and a certain birth of kernels abounds in each of the sections, and the fruit and grace returns into a circle. And so in that pine cone nature seems to express an image of itself, which, having received its privileges from that first divine and heavenly command, guards them, and renders its offspring by a certain succession and order of the years, until the consummation of time be fulfilled.
But as in this fruit it marks the pleasing appearance of itself, so also in the tamarisks—that is, the lowly shrubs—it has expressed the figure of wicked craftiness. For just as men of a double heart are everywhere at hand and hold forth grace and simplicity before the good, yet cleave to the most vicious, so also these shrubs are born by a certain contrary practice both in watery and in desert places. Hence Jeremiah too compared the doubtful and insincere in their ways to the tamarisks. 'Let the earth sprout,' he says, and at once all the earth was filled with the rising shoot. And to man it is said: 'Love the Lord your God,' and there is not the charity of God poured into the inward parts of all. The hearts of men are deafer than the hardness of rocks.
The earth ministers to us fruits not owed, while it obeys its Author: we deny the debt of our service, while we do not revere our Author. See in small things what the providence of God is, and, because you cannot comprehend it, marvel how he has kept some things ever flowering, has willed others to have the changes of despoiling and of clothing. Amid the white of snows, the frosts of the cold, the fields preserve their greenness; and though they themselves be covered with frost, they yet overspread no scanty beauty of greenness for their offspring. Even among those kinds of trees which are clothed with long-lasting foliage, there is no slight difference.
The olive or the pine ever keeps its garment, yet they often change their leaves, and hold them forth not as long-lasting but as supplemental to the beauty of their tree, overshadowing by the integrity of a perpetual vesture the alternation of the gift. But the palm remains green always outwardly and by long endurance, not by a change of leaves. For the leaves which it first put forth, these it preserves without any succession of substitution. Imitate it then, O man, that it may be said to you also: 'Your stature is made like to the palm.' Keep the greenness of your boyhood and of that natural innocence which you received from the beginning, that, planted beside the watercourses, you may have your fruit prepared in your season, and your leaf may not wither.
Following this greenness of grace ever flowering in Christ, the Church says: 'In his shadow I desired and sat down.' This prerogative of a verdant gift the apostles received, whose leaf could never slip away, so that even their shadow healed the sick; for the faith of the mind and the flourishing merits of the virtues overshadowed the infirmities of the body. Remain therefore planted in the house of the Lord, that in his courts you may flower like the palm, and that the grace of the Church may rise up in you, and that there may be the odor of your nostrils—as it says—like apples, that you may be made drunk in Christ. Well has this little verse admonished us to take up again what was almost left off, since we said that by the precept of the Lord the vine also sprouted, which afterwards, after the flood, we know to have been planted by Noah.
For thus you have it, that 'Noah was a husbandman of the earth, and he planted a vine, and drank of its wine, and fell asleep.' Noah, therefore, is not the author of the vine, but of its planting. For he could not have planted it unless he had found it already generated before. He is the cultivator, then, not the author of the vine. But God, who knew that wine drunk soberly would give health and increase prudence, but taken immoderately would give occasions to vices, gave the creature, but reserved the abundance to human judgment, so that thrift of nature might be a schooling in sobriety, and the human condition might ascribe to itself the harm of abundance and the fall of drunkenness. Finally, Noah himself too was made drunk and fell asleep, lulled by the wine.
Through wine, it is said, he lay open to deformity, who through the flood had grown up to glory. But the Lord even in this preserved the grace of his creature, that he might turn its fruit for us unto salvation, and that through it the remission of sins might come to us. Hence Isaac piously said: 'The odor of Jacob is the odor of a full field'—that is, a natural odor. For what is sweeter than a full countryside, what more delightful than the odor of the vine, what more pleasing than the flower of the bean? Hence, although someone before us has ingeniously said: 'The patriarch smelled not of vine or fig or grain, but breathed forth a spacious grace,' I nevertheless accept the very odor of the earth, simple and sincere, in place of the grace of blessing—an odor which no fraud has compounded, but the truth of heavenly indulgence has poured in.
Finally, it is reckoned among the most sacred blessings, that the Lord should grant us from the dew of heaven the strength of wine, of oil, and of grain—to whom be honor, praise, glory, and perpetuity from the ages and now and always and unto all the ages of ages. Amen. THE FOURTH DAY. He who gathers the vintage is wont first to cleanse the vessels into which the wine is poured, lest some dreg discolor the grace of the wine. For what does it profit to set the vine in order, to dig yearly or to draw furrows with the plows, to prune, to prop up, to join it to elms and to couple it by a kind of wedlock, if the wines sought with so great labor turn sour in the vessel?
If anyone desires to behold the morning risings of the sun, he first cleanses his eyes, lest any dust, lest any speck of refuse should settle upon them, by which the gaze of the beholder might be dulled, and lest some misty fog should veil the bodily vision of the one who looks. For us, in this reading, a sun must rise that did not exist before. We have already passed the first day without a sun, we have spent the second without a sun, we have completed the third without a sun; on the fourth day God commands the lights to come into being, the sun and the moon and the stars. The sun begins. Cleanse the eyes of your mind, O man, and the inner gaze of your soul, lest any mote of sin blunt the keenness of your understanding and trouble the vision of a pure heart.
Cleanse your ear, that with a pure vessel you may receive the bright streams of the divine Scripture, lest any defilement enter in. The sun proceeds, filling the day with great radiance, flooding the world with great light, breathing forth warmth. Beware, O man, of weighing only its greatness, lest its excessive brilliance blind the sight of your mind; just as one who looks straight into its ray loses all vision at once from the reflected light, and, unless he turns his face and eyes toward other regions, thinks he sees nothing and has been robbed of the faculty of sight—but if he averts his gaze, his full power of seeing endures. Beware, then, lest its rising ray also confound your sight.
And therefore first look upon the firmament of heaven, which was made before the sun; look upon the earth, which began to be visible and ordered before the sun came forth; look upon its sprouting plants, earlier than the light of the sun. The locust was earlier than the sun, the herb more ancient than the moon. Do not, then, believe to be a god that which you see to have had the gifts of God set before it. Three days have passed: and no one looked for the sun, and the brightness of light was abundant. For the day too has its own light, which is the forerunner of the sun. Do not, then, rashly commit your eye to so great a splendor of the sun—for it is the eye of the world, the gladness of the day, the beauty of heaven, the grace of nature, the excellence of creation—but when you see it, consider its Author; when you marvel at it, praise its very Creator.
If the sun, a fellow and partaker of creation, is so welcome, how good is that Sun of righteousness! If this one is so swift that with rapid courses it traverses all things by day and by night, how great is He who is everywhere always and fills all things with His majesty! If He is admirable who is commanded to come forth, how far beyond admiration is He who speaks to the sun and it does not rise, as we read! If great is he who through the changing hours daily draws near to places or withdraws from them, what is He who, even when He emptied Himself that we might see Him, was the true Light which enlightens every man coming into this world! If most excellent is he who by the interposition of the earth often suffers eclipse, of how great majesty is He who says: «Yet once more, and I will shake the earth»!
The earth hides that sun, but it cannot sustain the motion of this One, unless it be upheld by the substance of His will. If it is a loss for the blind not to see the grace of this sun, how great a loss for the sinner, robbed of the gift of the true Light, to endure the darkness of perpetual night! Therefore, when you see the sun, attend to the earth, which was founded before it; attend to the grass of the field, which excels by the privilege of order; attend to the trees, which clap their hands because they began to be before the lights of heaven. Are the merits of the field's grass greater than those of the sun, or is the prerogative of wood superior? Far be it that we should prefer insensible things to the minister of so great a gift.
What, then, did the depth of God's wisdom and knowledge foresee, that the trees should begin to be before those two lights of the world and the certain heavenly eyes of the firmament, except that all might know, by the testimony of the divine reading, that the earth can be fruitful without the sun? For that which was able, without the sun, to germinate the first seeds of things, is surely able to nourish the seeds it has received and, by its own warmth, without the heat of the sun, to bring forth its offspring. By this voice, then, nature cries out, as it were, concerning its own gifts: good indeed is the sun, but by ministry, not by command; a good helper of my fruitfulness, but not its creator; a good nourisher of my fruits, but not their author. Sometimes it even scorches my offspring; often it too is a harm to me, and in many places leaves me undowered.
I am not ungrateful to my fellow-servant; he was given to me for my use, he was bound to labor with me, with me he was made subject to vanity, with me he was put under the bondage of corruption. With me he groans together, with me he travails in birth, that the adoption of sons and the redemption of the human race may come, whereby we too may be set free from bondage. Standing with me, he praises the Author; with me he sings a hymn to the Lord our God. Where his grace is greater, there he has fellowship in common with me. Where the sun blesses, there the earth blesses; the fruit-bearing trees bless, the cattle bless, the birds bless together with me. Set upon the sea, the sailor accuses him and longs for me; on the mountains the shepherd turns away from him toward my sprouting growth.
He hastens to my trees, that being overheated he may be shaded by them; to my springs when thirsty and weary. But lest the testimony of the eyes seem to you too slight, cleanse your ear, apply it to the heavenly oracles; for by two and three witnesses every word stands. Hear Him who says: «Let there be lights in the firmament of heaven for the illumination of the earth.» Who says this? God, He says. And to whom does He say it but to the Son? God the Father, then, says, «Let there be a sun,» and the Son made the sun; for it was fitting that the Sun of righteousness should make the sun of the world. He, then, brought it forth into light, He illumined it, He granted to it the power of pouring forth light. The sun, then, was made; and therefore it too serves, since it is said: «Thou hast founded the earth, and it abides.»
By Thy disposition the day abides, since all things serve Thee. For if the day serves, how does the sun not serve, which was made to govern the day? How do the moon and stars not serve, which were made to govern the night? Indeed, by how much greater grace the Creator has bestowed upon them—that the air should shine more than usual with the sun's brightness, that the day should glow more serenely, that the darkness of night should be lit by the splendor of moon and stars, that heaven, as though crowned with certain flowers, should so sparkle with fiery lights that you would think it painted like a Paradise in springtime, glittering with the living jewels of breathing roses—by however much more of adornment seems to have been conferred upon them, by so much the more they owe; for to whom more is committed, more is owed.
And therefore it has rightly been called by many the ornament of heaven, because it is the precious necklace of the stars. And that we may know that the fertility of the lands is not ascribed to the heat of the sun but is reckoned to the divine bounty, the prophet says: «All things wait upon Thee, that Thou mayest give them food in due season: when Thou givest to them, they will gather for themselves; when Thou openest Thy hand, all things will be filled with good»; and further on: «Send forth Thy Spirit, and they shall be created, and Thou shalt renew the face of the earth»; and in the Gospel: «Consider the birds of heaven, for they neither sow nor reap, and your heavenly Father feeds them.» Therefore neither the sun nor the moon are the authors of fruitfulness, but God the Father, through the Lord Jesus, imparts to all the liberality of fertility.
But the prophet has beautifully explained for us what is meant by that which He says, that God made the sun to govern the day and the moon to govern the night. For in that very Psalm, the hundred and third, of which we spoke above, he wrote: «He made the moon for seasons; the sun knew his going down.» For when the day has begun to fulfill its hours, the sun acknowledges the setting due to it. The sun, then, is in the power of the day, and the moon in the power of the night, which is compelled to obey the changes of the seasons and is now filled with light and now emptied. Although many seem to take this passage mystically, of Christ and the Church—that Christ acknowledged the passion of His own body, He who says: «Father, the hour is come: glorify Thy Son.»
that by that His own setting He might give eternal life to all who were pressed down by the setting of perpetual death; and that the Church too has her own seasons, namely of persecution and of peace. For she seems, like the moon, to wane, yet she does not wane. She can be overshadowed, she cannot fail; she is indeed diminished in persecutions by the falling away of some, that she may be filled by the confessions of the martyrs and, made glorious by the victories of blood poured out for Christ, may shed throughout the whole world a greater light of her devotion and faith. For the moon, as it is written, has light, not body, when by its monthly changes it seems to lay aside its light, that it may borrow from the sun what can easily be gathered in clear and transparent air, when no overhanging cloud makes it dim.
For the orb of the moon remains entire, even if it does not all shine alike as a part of it does; and such as it is wont to appear when it is full of light, such is it in magnitude, but it appears bereft of its own light through a certain shadow. And hence its horns shine forth, because its body is spread out into an orb and is, as it were, disclosed when the light of a portion fails. Now it may move one that He says: «Let there be lights for the illumination of the earth, to divide between day and night,» since Scripture, where it made the light, had said: «God divided between the light and the darkness. And there was evening and there was morning, one day.»
But let us consider that the light of the day is one thing, the light of the sun and moon and the light of the stars another, in that the sun itself seems by its rays to add brightness to the light of day, as either the rising or the setting of the day can show. For before the sun it is indeed light, but the day does not shine forth, because it shines more fully under the midday sun. This the prophet shows, saying: «And He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday.» For he compared the righteousness of the saints not only to light, but even to the noonday light.
Then He willed there to be not only one sign but even two of the distinction of day and night, that both the daylight should make the distinction together with the sun's rising, and again the failing of daylight together with the rising of the stars should mark off the setting of the day and the beginning of the night. For where the sun has set, there yet remains something of the remnants of day, until darkness covers the earth, and then the moon rises and the stars. And concerning the night it is plainly evident, since the illumination of the moon and stars attests the spaces of the night, seeing that during the day the risen sun hides that lunar brightness and that of all the stars. But concerning the day, even the very blaze of the sun cannot teach otherwise—that the nature of daylight and of the sun is different, and that it is itself of a distinct hue.
For the nature of light is simple, in that it furnishes light: but the sun has not only the power of its kind, but also of giving warmth; for it is fiery, and fire both illumines and burns. Hence God, willing to show Moses the miracle of His working—by which He might rouse Moses to zeal for obedience and inflame his affection to faith—was seen in fire in the bush, and the bush was not burned, but only seemed to shine with the appearance of fire. One office, then, of the nature of fire it left idle, the other it worked. The force of burning was at rest, the illumination was at work. Therefore Moses was amazed, because contrary to its nature the fire did not burn the bush, the fire which is wont to burn even more solid matter. But the fire of the Lord is wont to illumine, not to burn.
And perhaps you may say: how is it written, «I am a consuming fire»? You have admonished well: it is not wont to consume except sins alone. In the recompenses of merits, too, we gather the nature of the divine fire—that it illumines some and burns others, illumines the just, burns the impious. It does not burn the same ones it illumines, nor illumine those it burns; but its illumination is inextinguishable for the enjoyment of the good, its burning vehement for the punishment of sinners. But let us return to the distinction of day and night. When the light of day arises, the night is put to flight; when the day departs, the night pours in. For there is no fellowship of place for light with darkness, since by a natural law the Lord has established this in the working of living things.
For indeed, when He made the light, He also made the distinction between light and darkness. Finally, in the day itself, when the sun has already been poured over the lands, we see the shadow either of a man or of some shrub separated from the light, so that in the morning it is directed toward the west, in the evening it is turned back toward the east, and in the midday hours it inclines toward the north; yet it is not confounded and mingled with the light, but yields and flees. Likewise it seems to yield to the day and to turn away from its light; for it is, as the more skilled have proved—those who have preceded us either in age or in office—the shadow of the earth.
For naturally the shadow clings and is joined to a body, so much so that even painters strive to express the shadows of bodies, which they account to be the test of art—not to pass over the force of nature—and as it were by a kind of natural-law judgment that picture is reckoned defective which does not also express its own shadow. Therefore, just as in the day, when some body meets the sun from the opposite quarter, on that part where the light is repelled a shadow remains; so when, at the departure of the day, the interposition of the earth meets the opposite quarter from the light or the sun, the air is overshadowed. Whence it is clear that the shadow of the lands makes the night.
He made, then, the sun and the moon and the stars, and appointed for them the measures of times—for the sun the daily measures, for the moon and stars the nightly—that the one might increase the grace of the day, the others govern the shadow and the darkness, and that they might be for signs and for seasons and for days and for years. The sun and the moon, with the stars, have divided times and equal measures according to the changes of the months, and they are for signs. We cannot deny that certain signs are gathered from the sun and moon; for the Lord too said: «And there shall be signs in the sun and moon and stars,» and to the apostles seeking a sign of His coming He answered: «The sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven.» These He said would be signs of the coming consummation.
Finally, some have attempted to express the qualities of nativities—what each one who is born will turn out to be—although this is not only restrained but even useless to those who inquire, impossible to those who promise it. For what is so useless as that each one should persuade himself that he is that which he was born? No one, then, ought to change his life, condition, and morals and strive to become better, but to remain in that persuasion; nor can you praise the upright nor condemn the wicked, who would seem merely to answer the necessity of his nativity. And how has the Lord either set rewards before the good or punishments before the wicked, if necessity produces discipline and the course of the stars shapes our conduct?
And what else is this than to wash—nay, to strip—the man out of the man, if nothing is left to morals, nothing to training, nothing to study? How many do we see snatched from crimes and sins and converted to a better state! The apostles were redeemed and gathered out of sinners, not indeed by the influence of their natal hour, but the coming of Christ sanctified them, and the hour of the Lord's passion redeemed them from death.
That thief who was condemned, who was crucified with the Lord, passed into eternal life not by the benefit of his nativity, but by the confession of faith. It was not the force of nativity but the offense of the disregarded divine prediction that cast Jonah into the sea, and the whale, receiving him as a token of the future mystery, after three days vomited him forth again and reserved him by the merit of prophetic grace. An angel, not the sequence of the stars, freed Peter from prison and from imminent death. Blindness converted Paul to grace, and when he was struck by a viper and tossed by shipwreck, it was not the remedies of nativity but the merits of his devotion that burned out the venom. What shall we say of those who, by their prayers, rose again when they had been dead?
Did their own nativity, or apostolic grace, call them back? What need was there for them to commit themselves to fastings and perils, if by some benefit of nativity they could attain whither they wished? But if they had believed this, while awaiting the necessity of the fates, they would never have attained to so great a grace. Useless, then, is this persuasion. What of the fact that it is even impossible? For—that we may take something from their own disputation, for the sake of refuting, not of proving—they say that there is a great force in nativity, and that it must be gathered by certain minute and fixed moments; and that, unless it is gathered more accurately, there is the greatest divergence.
For they say that by a brief instant and tiny moment the nativity of the poor and the powerful differs, of the needy and the rich, of the innocent and the guilty; and that often in the same hour there is born one destined for long life and one who will die in the first age of childhood, if the rest be unequal and distinguished by some point of time. Let them answer how they can gather this. Set the case of a woman's delivery; one first perceives him by the womb, examines his cry, by which the life of the newborn is gathered, attends to whether it is male or female. How many moments, besieged amid these delays, do you wish there to be? Place the astrologer ready at hand. Can a man be present at the childbirth?
While the midwife gives the message, the Chaldean hears it, sets the horoscope; the fates have already migrated into the lot of another now born—about the one inquiry is made, and the genesis of another is set forth. Suppose their opinion about the necessities of nativities to be true: the reckoning cannot be true. The points pass away, irrecoverable time flees. That time is in an atom and in the twinkling of an eye, I am led to believe, since we are all raised in an atom, in the twinkling of an eye, as the Apostle attests, saying: «Behold, I tell you a mystery. We shall indeed all rise, but we shall not all be changed—in an atom, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; and the dead shall rise incorruptible, and we shall be changed.»
Between the bringing forth and the receiving and the laying down of the pledge, between its weeping and the announcement, how many atoms have passed! And this, supposing I have woven these matters simply. For they themselves divide that vital circuit of the twelve signs into twelve parts, and, because in thirty days the sun goes out from the twelfth part of its sphere—which is held to be its servant—so that the circle of the sun may be completed in the circuit of the year, they distribute each one of those twelve portions into thirty little portions, which the Greeks call «moirai»; and each little portion they apportion again into sixty turns. Again, each one of those sixty they cut into smaller divisions.
How incomprehensible it is that they should fix the moments of nativity at a sixtieth of a sixtieth of a little portion, and what the motion or appearance of each single sign may be at the birth of the one being born. Hence, since it is impossible to comprehend such subtle minutiae of time, and a tiny alteration brings in an error of the whole, the entire business is full of error. The disputers do not know what is their own: and how have they come to know what is another's? They are ignorant of what threatens themselves: can they announce to others the things that are to come? It is ridiculous to believe it, because, if they could, they would rather provide for themselves first.
Now how absurd it is that, if anyone should say he was born under the sign of Aries, he is reckoned most excellent in counsel from the use of the beast, because such a beast stands out in the flock; or wealthier, because the ram has a natural clothing and reaps the profit of its fleece from the lands, and therefore the gains of profit seem familiar to that man. Likewise they argue from the signs of the Bull and of the Fishes, so as from the nature of cheap animals to estimate the powers of the heaven's motion and of the signs as to be interpreted. Our food, then, fixes for us the decrees of living, and our nourishments—that is, the Ram, the Bull, and the Fish—imprint upon us the discipline of morals.
How, then, do they fetch from heaven for us the causes of things and the substance of this life, when to the heavenly signs themselves they assign the causes of their own motion from the qualities of cheap food? They say one born under the sign of Aries is generous, because the ram lays aside its wool not unwillingly; and they prefer to ascribe a chosen virtue to the nature of a cheap animal rather than to heaven, whence both serenity shines upon us and rain often descends. They say those whom the Bull has looked upon at birth are laborious and of pleasant service, because the laborious animal puts its neck of its own accord under the yoke to take it up, subjecting itself to servitude. The sheep too—whose nativity the Scorpion has embraced with its part—they say spits out the storehouse and the poisons of malice, because it is a venomous animal.
Why, then, do you put forward by the dignity of the heavenly signs that which is to give authority for living, and take an argument for your assertion from certain trifles? For if such properties of morals, taken from animals, are imprinted upon the motions of heaven, then heaven too seems to be subject to the power of bestial nature, from which it received the causes of the vital substance which it would impart to men. But if this shrinks from the truth, far more ridiculous is that other thing—that they, being destitute of the support of truth, should fetch from this source credence for their disputation. Next, let us consider that they call those signs planets, by whose motions they assert the necessities of our life are formed.
Whether, then, as the name sounds, they always wander, or, as they themselves say, are borne with so swift a motion that ten thousand times a day—or, if this seems incredible, that by their innumerable revolution they change their manifold appearance—it lacks all credibility that, by so wandering an error of their own and by so swift a motion, they should decree for us a fixed and immovable, dreadful lot of living. Yet they maintain that the motions of all are not equal, but that the circuits of some are swifter, of others slower, so that in the same hour they both frequently see one another and frequently hide, while one is passed by another.
They say, moreover, that it matters very much whether beneficent signs look upon the rising of one's generation, or maleficent and harmful ones; and that the difference of nativity lies in this, that the aspect of a beneficent sign confers very much, that of a maleficent and harmful one harms very much. For thus they are wont to call those same signs which they venerate; for I am obliged to use the names of those whose assertions I make use of, lest they should allege their arguments to be ignored rather than emptied out and destroyed. And so, since they cannot comprehend that wandering and swift motion, it often happens that, through that incomprehensible subtlety of the point and moment, they place the aspect of a beneficent sign where the offense of a grievous and harmful one falls in.
And what wonder if men are deluded, where harmless signs are blasphemed? For if these are believed to be by their own nature harmful, then God Most High is accused, as if He made what is evil and was a worker of wickedness; but if they are thought of their own will to have taken on what harms the innocent and those as yet conscious to themselves of no most wicked deed—those to whom punishment is ascribed before guilt—what is so irrational, what exceeds even the savagery of irrational beasts, as that the practice of fraud or of favor should be attributed not to the merits of men but assigned to the motions of signs? «He committed no fault,» one says, «but a harmful star looked upon him.» They seek for him the star of Saturn: it turns itself a little aside and takes away the calamity, absolves the charge.
But this wisdom of theirs is compared to a spider's web, into which, if a gnat or a fly falls, it cannot extricate itself; but if some kind of stronger animal is seen to have run into it, it passes through and breaks the feeble snares and the empty meshes for itself. Such are the nets of the Chaldeans, that in them the weak stick fast, while the stronger in understanding cannot meet with hindrance. And so you who are stronger, when you see the astrologers, say: «They weave a spider's web,» which can have neither any use nor bonds, if you do not run into it like a gnat or a fly through the lapse of your weakness, but like a sparrow or a dove dissolve the feeble meshes by the swiftness of your soaring flight.
For indeed, who of the prudent would believe that the motions of signs, which are often changed within a day and recur upon themselves in manifold ways, bestow the insignia of powers? For if it were so, how many configurations of royal nativities there would be within a day! Daily, then, kings would be born, nor would royal succession be transmitted to sons, but always from a different state would arise those who should acquire for themselves the right of power. Who, then, of kings casts the horoscope of his son, if the empire is owed to him, and does not rather by his own will transcribe the succession of the kingdom to his own? We read indeed that Abijah begot Asa, Asa begot Jehoshaphat, he begot Joram, Joram begot Uzziah, and all the rest down to the captivity, the succession of both lineage and honor being equally carried on through the kings.
Were they able, because they were kings, to command the heavenly signs to shape their motions? For what man can hold dominion over them? Then, if our acts and deeds are to be referred to natal necessity and not to the institutions of morals, why have laws been set forth, and rights too promulgated, by which either punishment is decreed for the wicked or security is granted to the harmless? Why is pardon not given to the accused, since indeed, as they themselves say, they have sinned not by their own will but from necessity? Why does the farmer toil and not rather wait, that by the privilege of his nativity he may bring into the receptacles of his barns crops he has not labored for?
If he was born so that riches flow to him without labor, surely let him wait, that the earth may of itself bring forth for him spontaneous returns without any seed, that he may not press the plowshare into the fields, nor set his curved hand to the sickle, nor undertake the expense of the vintage to be gathered, but that of their own accord the flowing wines may be poured for him into all his jars, and that of itself the berry of the wild olive, grafted onto no stocks, may sweat out oil for him. Nor let the trafficker of the wide sea, the merchant anxious for the peril of his own safety, shudder, into whom, while at leisure, the treasure of riches can, as they say, glide by a kind of natal lot. But this is not the verdict of all.
In short, the unwearied farmer, with plow pressed down, cleaves the earth; naked he plows, naked he sows, naked under the burning sun he threshes on the threshing-floor the grain parched by the heat; and the trader, impatient of his own east wind, on a mostly unsafe vessel furrows the sea. Whence the prophet, condemning their importunity and rashness, says: «Be ashamed, O Sidon, says the sea»; that is: if perils do not move you, let shame at least restrain you, let modesty confound you. Be ashamed, O Sidon, in which there is no place for virtue, no care for salvation, no youth devoted to war for the watch-posts of the fatherland, trained in arms; but all anxiety is about gain, all zeal is for merchandise. «The seed of merchants,» he says, «is like a harvest.»
But what reward is there for a Christian man, if he orders his cares and works not from will, but from necessity? For where necessity is decreed, there industry is unhonored. We have said much; we are unwilling to say more, lest anyone should suppose that the things which are taken up by us from their assertions are taken up for refutation, for acknowledgment. For how can we as old men recount the things at which we laughed in our youth? Now let us direct our pen to those things which remain according to the reading. «Let there be lights,» He says, «for signs and for seasons and for days and for years.» Of signs we have spoken; but what are the seasons but the changes of alternation—winter, spring, summer, and autumn? In these seasons, then, the transit of the sun is either swifter or slower.
For one thing it grazes with its rays, another it sets ablaze with its heat. And so, when the sun lingers in the southern regions, it is winter for us. For when the sun is farther away, the earth grows stiff with frost, is bound fast by the cold, and a great shadow of night covers the lands, so that the spaces of night are far longer than those of day. From this arises the cause whereby in the winter months an excessive force of snows and rains is poured down upon us.
But when, departing from the southern regions, it returns above the earth, it makes the times of night and day equal; and the more it adds delay to its courses, so much the more does it gradually bring back the mildness of this air and recall the gentleness of the breezes, which, cherishing all things, compel them to seek again their birth, so that the earth may sprout and the seeds, loosed in the furrows, may come to life again; and that, by the budding of the trees, a succession may be propagated for the perpetual preservation of those kinds which, whether on the lands or in the waters, rejoice in their yearly offspring. But when, toward the summer solstice, it rises high into the north, it lengthens the spaces of the day, while it shortens and constrains the nights.
And so, the more it is joined and mingled with this air by constant contact, the more it warms the very air, dries up the moisture of the lands, makes the seeds grow, and ripens the fruits of the woods as it were into manly juices. Then, because it is more burning, it casts smaller shadows at midday, since from on high it illumines this place. Whence also the synagogue says in the Song of Songs: 「Tell me, O thou whom my soul hath loved, where thou feedest, where thou liest at noon, lest by chance I become as one veiled about over the flocks of thy companions」 — that is: 「Tell me, O Christ, whom my soul hath loved.」 Why does it not rather say 「whom it loveth」? But it is the synagogue of our day, the Church, that loves, and never changes her affection toward her Christ.
「Where,」 she says, 「of ours, where dost thou lie at noon?」 I desire to follow thee as a foster-child, who, as one joined to thee, held thee before, and to seek thy flocks, because I have lost my own. Thou feedest among ours, in the place of the Church; among ours it shines again, where judgment gleams like noonday, where no shadow is discerned, where the days are longer, because for them the Sun of righteousness lingers longer, as in the summer months. Indeed, the day of the Lord is not short, but great, for it is written: 「until the great day of the Lord come.」 Whence also Jacob says: 「All the days of my life which I pass are few and evil」; for the doubtful light is evil. Therefore the short days are of doubtful light and are full of shadow.
The great days are without shadow, as many have learned by experience and example in certain hotter regions. And so the synagogue, in the short and evil days — Jacob in his own person frequently expressing a figure of judgment, or rather of this people — had abundant shadow, since it did not see the Sun of righteousness, and saw Him not from on high above its own head, but from the south of judgment, when winter was a sign. But to the Church it is said: 「The winter is past」 — a sign to herself — 「the flowers have appeared on the earth, the time of harvest has come.」 Before the coming of Christ it was winter; after the coming of Christ there are the flowers of the spring of mangers and the harvest of summer. From the south, therefore, and from the least turning, beholding Him as He shines upon it, it is overshadowed.
But the people of the Gentiles, who were of confusion — the heathen who sat in darkness — saw a great light; they who sat in the region of the shadow of death, upon them a light has arisen, a great light of the Godhead, which no shadow of death interrupts. Therefore He illumines from on high, since this too is of His brightness, as Zacharias says: 「whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.」 There is indeed also a certain shadow of salvation, not of death, as rather it is said: 「Under the shadow of thy wings shalt thou protect me」 — a shadow indeed, because it is of the body; a shadow, because it is of the cross; but a shadow of salvation, because in it was the remission of sins and the raising again of the dead.
We can therefore take an example, that the winter days are short but have larger shadows, while the summer days are longer but have smaller shadows. At midday too the shadow is smaller than either at the beginning or the end of the day, and this is so with us in the western part. Moreover there are those who, in the southern regions, have two days of the whole year better without shadow, because, having the sun above their very head, they are illumined on every side all around — whence in Greek they are called 「ascii」 (shadowless). They report further that the sun comes so directly from on high that through the narrow shafts of wells it makes the water that lies in the depth shine back more strongly. And in the south there are said to be those who are called 「amphiscii,」 because they cast a shadow on both sides.
For the shadow is behind those who walk opposite the sun: thus, if you go toward the east, in the morning hours; if you press toward the southern quarter, at midday; if toward the west, at the setting of the day. From three quarters, therefore, the sun meets you — from the east, from the south, from the west. In the morning and the evening it is behind you, at midday also at your side; but truly from the north the sun is never, and therefore neither shadow: if you direct yourself toward the north, whether in the morning or the evening or at midday, it cannot be behind you. For there are some who, in this circle of lands which we inhabit, are placed about the south, who seem to cast a shadow toward the southern quarter. And this is said to happen to them at the height of the heat, when the sun directs itself toward the north.
Afterward autumn, receiving us, breaks indeed the magnitude of the heats, but, the warmth being relaxed and laid aside little by little, through the temperateness of a middle moderation it hands us over without harm and without any injury to the wintry blasts. 「Let them be also for days,」 it says — not that they should make the days, but that in them they should hold the chief place; so that the sun may illumine the rising of the day with a richer grace, so that throughout the whole day they may have the power of marking it out, by the gift of their course. Thus some understand what the prophet says: 「the sun for power over the day, the moon and stars for power over the night,」 since they carry their light around. They were also appointed for years, both that sun and moon:
The moon completes her course through thirty days in twelve cycles, making up that year — according to the Hebrews with certain days added, according to the Romans with the addition of one day once within four years in the bissextile. There is also the solstitial year, when the sun, having completed its circuit through all the signs, returns to that point from which it took the beginning of its course; for the full traversal of the whole space is reckoned as a year for it. 「God therefore made these two great lights」 — we can understand them as great not so much by comparison with others as by their own office, just as 「the heaven is great」 and 「the sea is great」;
for the sun too is great, which fills the circle of the lands with its heat, and the moon with its light — and not only the lands, but also this air and the sea and the face of heaven —, which, in whatever part of heaven they may be, He loved all things and they are alike beheld by all, so that each several people believes them to linger as it were only over their own regions and to be present and to shine only for them, although they shine alike upon all, so that no one should think another nearer to them than he himself is. The proof of their magnitude is evident, because to all men the disk of the moon appears the same. For even if at times its light is increased and diminished, yet in the same night, such as it appears to me, such it appears to all.
For if to those placed far off it appeared smaller, and to those set nearer it shone larger, it would betray a sign of narrowness and scantiness. Indeed, we judge all other things placed far off to be smaller, and when we behold them nearer, larger to themselves. The closer you are to it, so much the more is the magnitude of that thing heaped up for you. The sun's ray is nearer to none, farther from none; likewise too the globe of the moon is equal for all. The sun appears alike both to the Indians and to the Britons at the same moment when it rises, nor when it sinks into setting does it appear smaller to the eastern peoples than to the western, nor, when it rises, is it reckoned lower by the western than by the eastern. 「How far,」 it says, 「is the east from the west!」 These are distant from one another in turn, but the sun is distant from none.
To none is it more present, from none more remote. Nor let it move you that the disk of the sun appears to you as it were a cubit wide when it rises; but consider how great the space of distance is between the sun and the lands — which the weakness of our sight cannot traverse without great loss of itself. Our sight grows dim: does the sun then grow dim, or the moon? Our gaze is narrow: does it therefore make narrower the things that are seen? The appearance is lessened, the magnitude is not taken away. For we ought not to ascribe the weakness of our own affliction to the affliction of the luminaries. Our sight lies; do not therefore deem its testimony trustworthy, but, of heavenly things, it is the figure of the spectacle that is smaller, not their form.
If from the highest peak of mountains you should desire to behold the plain set beneath your eyes, and there the herds grazing, will you not judge their bodies like those of ants? If you should look at the sea from some watchtower, do not the white sails of the largest ships, gleaming among the blue waves, seem to you from afar like the appearance of flying doves to cover the sea? What of the very islands which the sea spreads abroad as the fields of the lands — within how narrow a bound are they reckoned to be enclosed, how round they appear instead of rugged, how dense instead of sparse! Weigh, then, these weaknesses of your sight, and from yourself, as a just arbiter, summon up faith in the things we set forth. But do you wish to estimate the magnitude of the sun not only by the eye of the mind, but also by that of the body? Consider.
However many globes of stars seem to interweave the axis of heaven and to mark it with countless lights, they cannot nevertheless wipe away the darkness of night and the clouds of heaven. As soon as the sun has sent before it the signs of its rising, all the fires of the stars vanish beneath the splendor of one luminary; the air is opened, and the face of heaven is suffused with a purpling redness. While the dawn is still breathing forth its beginning, already with momentary swiftness the splendor of the full light flashes, and the sweet forerunning breeze of the rising sun breathes upon us. Tell me, I pray, unless the orb were great, how could it illumine the great orb of the lands? But what shall I say of so great a tempering and moderation of the Creator, who measured out a healthful and salutary apportionment of the sun, so that neither should its fiery vapor...
...as it appears, being poured in, burn up the veins of the lands and the kinds of things; nor again, having been cooled through such great spaces of the world, plant in the lands no seed of warmth, but, leaving a starveling and needy fruit, exhale toward no grace of fertility. Similar things concerning the nature of the moon agree, which we have recorded concerning her consort and brother, since indeed she clothes herself in that same ministry into which her brother also clothes himself — to illumine the darkness, cherish the seeds, increase the fruits. She has also very many things distinct from her brother: so that what the heat has dried out of the earth's moisture all day, the dew may restore in the brief time of night; for the moon herself too is a generous giver of dew. In short, when the night is calmer and the moon shines all night long, then more abundant dew is borne to bedew the fields.
And many who rest beneath the open air have perceived that, the more they had been beneath the light of the moon, the more moisture they had gathered in the head. Whence also in the Song of Songs Christ says to the Church: 「For my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.」 Then thereafter it is diminished and increased, so that it is smaller when it rises anew, and when it has been diminished, it is heaped up. In this is a great mystery. For the elements suffer together with its waning, and with its advance the things that have been emptied are heaped up — as the brain of living creatures, the moist parts of sea-creatures, since indeed oysters are said to be fuller, and many other things, when the lunar globe grows. The same things they allege concerning the inner parts of trees, those who store this up by their own practice in barns.
We see therefore that its rising and waning are of a fixed order, not of weakness. For it would never give so great a change in things unless it possessed an excelling power and a grace conferred by the Creator. Some men, even learned and Christian, have alleged that the air too is wont to be changed at the moon's rising; but if that change came about by some violence of the moon, at all its risings the heaven would be interwoven with clouds and rains would be poured down. Indeed, when some days ago there was talk of rain, which was said to be likely to be useful, a certain man said: 「Behold, the new moon will give it.」 And although we were eager for showers, nevertheless I did not wish such assertions to be true.
In short, I was delighted that no rain was poured out, until, granted to the prayers of the Church, it made manifest that it was not to be hoped for from the beginnings of the moon, but from the providence and mercy of the Creator. To be sure, the straits, when they surge on every side according to the various phases of the moon and are borne with great force, even by the very floods received upon floods, yet at the moon's rising they stand calm, as long as the moon is without light; but truly when the advance of days has unveiled it, then they return into their refluent courses.
The ebb-tide too, which is said to be in the ocean, although on the remaining days it is said to keep its order, is said at the moon's rising to give an evident sign of its own change, so that the western sea itself, in which the ebb-tide is observed, advances and recedes more than usual and is borne with a greater swell, as if it were drawn backward by certain breathings of the moon and again, driven and drawn back by the same, is poured back into its proper measure. Whence, if you marvel how the moon suffers waning, when it possesses so great a force of change of its own, consider that in this too there is a great mystery, that by its example you may learn, O man, that nothing of human things can be, nor of the whole mundane creation, that is not at some time dissolved.
For if even the moon, to which the Lord has committed so great a ministry, that it should illumine the circle of the lands, both increases and wanes — for all things fail which, having arisen out of nothing, have come to their perfection and again, being perfected, are diminished; for heaven and earth shall pass away — why do we not take up this measure of moderation, that neither in adversities should we cast down our spirit (for He who made all things out of nothing is also easily able to advance you to the highest and most perfect), and again, that we should not be lifted up in prosperity, nor boast ourselves in any power or in riches, nor glory in the strength of the body or in beauty — wherein change is easy and frequent, as with waves — but that we should pursue the grace of the soul that abides for the future?
If the setting of the moon, which ever repairs and reforms itself, saddens you, much more ought it to sadden you if the soul, when it has been filled with the increase of virtue, afterward, through the inconstancy of the mind and through negligence, turned aside from its own purpose, should often change its pursuits — which is the mark of folly and is a thing to be feared. Whence also the Scripture says: 「The fool changes like the moon.」 And therefore the wise man does not change with the moon, but his prudence shall abide with the sun. Whence the moon is not a partaker of folly, because the moon does not change like a fool, but the fool changes like the moon. In short, the seed of the just, like the moon perfected in strength, abides forever, and is a faithful witness in heaven.
For it is one thing to perform a ministry, another to be carried about by one's own disposition and, through the weakness of perception, not to hold a fixed resolve. The moon labors for you and is made subject because of the will of God; for 「the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected it in hope.」 She therefore is changed not of her own will, you are changed of your own will. She groans together and changes her own beauty; you do not understand, and you congratulate yourself against the truth. She frequently awaits your redemption, that she may be freed from the common servitude of the whole creation; you bring a hindrance both to your own redemption and to her liberty. It is, therefore, of your folly, not of hers, that, while you are awaited and are not even late in being converted, she still is changed.
Do not, therefore, estimate the moon by the eye of your body, but by the vivacity of the mind. The moon is diminished that it may refill the elements. This, then, is the great mystery. He bestowed this upon her, who bestowed grace upon all. He emptied her, that she might refill, who also emptied Himself, that He might fill all things; for He emptied Himself of His own fullness, that He might descend to us; He descended to us, that He might ascend for all; for 「He ascended,」 it says, 「above the heavens, that He might fill all things.」 And so He who had come emptied, from His own fullness filled the apostles. Whence one of them says: 「For of His fullness have we all received.」 The moon therefore announced the mystery of Christ. Not common is she in whom He has set His sign, not common is she who has the figure of the beloved Church, which the prophet signifies, saying:
「In his days shall righteousness arise, and abundance of peace, until the moon be taken away.」 And in the Song of Songs the Lord says of His own spouse: 「Who is this that looketh forth as the dawn, fair as the moon, chosen as the sun?」 And rightly is the Church like the moon, which has shone upon the whole world and, illumining the darkness of this age, says: 「The night is far spent, the day is at hand.」 Beautifully it says 「looking forth,」 as one gazing upon her own from a higher place, just as you have: 「The Lord looked forth from heaven upon the children of men.」 The Church, therefore, looking forth like the moon, has her wanings and her frequent risings, but by her own wanings she has grown and by these has merited to be enlarged, while by persecutions she is diminished and by the martyrdoms of confessors she is crowned.
This is the true moon, which borrows for itself, from the perpetual light of her brother, the light of immortality and of grace. For the Church shines not by her own light, but by the light of Christ, and draws her splendor for herself from the Sun of righteousness, so that she may say: 「Yet I live, no longer I, but Christ liveth in me.」 Blessed indeed art thou, O moon, who hast merited so great a distinction! Whence I would call thee blessed not for thy phases, but for the figure of the Church; for in those thou servest, in this thou art beloved. How ridiculous, moreover, that men for the most part believe thee able to be drawn down by magic incantations! Those are old wives' tales and opinions of the common crowd. For who would suppose that a work of God, assigned to so great a ministry, could be assailed by Chaldaean superstitions?
Let him be fallen who transfigures himself into an angel of light and is led astray by his own will, not by the power of incantations. To be sure, in this too, O Church, you are thought able as it were to be drawn down from your place and station. Many tempt the Church, but the songs of the witch's art cannot harm her by their knowledge. The enchanters avail nothing where the song of Christ is daily chanted. She has her own enchanter, the Lord Jesus, through whom she has emptied of power the songs of the chanting magicians and the venoms of serpents; and she herself, like the serpent lifted up, devours the snakes, and although the deadly song of the Egyptians murmurs, in the name of Christ it is blunted. Thus also Paul, by the loss of his eyes no less than by the weakness of the witch's art, brought the magician...
Thus Peter cast down and laid low Simon, who was seeking the heights of heaven by magic flight, when the power of his songs had been dissolved. Beautifully, as I think, the fourth day has come to its close. How, then, do many usually count the fourth day among mysteries — and how do they think it idle to begin anything with this number, by which the whole world flashed forth with new light? Or did the sun begin under sinister auspices? And how can he sign good things who at his rising did not know how to choose by mildness the day of the valleys? Or how do they approve his signs, whose rising they do not approve? What also shall we say of the moon, which both began on the fourth day and on the fourteenth signs the day of salvation? Or does the number displease, by which the mystery of redemption is celebrated?
For this reason the demons persuade men that that number must be shunned, by which their wickedness was destroyed. For this reason the Gentiles assert that nothing should be undertaken on it, because they know that then for the first time their arts began to be idle and the Gentile peoples began to migrate to the Church. They certainly reckon that the moon on the fourth day, if it has been pure and with horns not blunted, gives, for the remaining days up to the end of the month, a sign of fair weather. They are unwilling, therefore, to begin with those same beginnings with which fair weather begins. But now it must be guarded against, lest in our discourse the fourth day set; for greater shadows fall from the mountains, the weakness is diminished, the shadow is heaped up. THE FIFTH DAY.
All the earth was green with diverse growths; the heaven too, marked with the twin lights of its countenance, sun and moon, and with the beauty of the stars, shone brightly. There remained a third element, the sea, that to it also grace might come by the divine gift. For by the ethereal spirit all the offspring of the lands are nourished, and the earth too, loosing all its seeds, gives life to them, and then especially, first bidden by the word of God to grow green, girded with its own office, it sprouted forth: the water was at leisure and seemed kept apart from the benefit of the divine working. The Creator still has something which He may confer upon it, whereby He may make it equal to the offices of the lands; He was reserving for it that it too might claim something proper and special to itself, of the prerogative of the gift conferred upon it.
The earth gave life first, but to those things which did not have a breathing soul: the water is commanded to bring forth those things which should display the vigor and dignity of a living soul, and should receive the perception of guarding their own safety and of fleeing death. And so God said: 「Let the waters bring forth creeping things of living souls according to their kind, and flying fowl flying according to the firmament of heaven.」 The command came, and at once the water was poured forth into the bidden offspring; the rivers began to generate, the lakes to give life, the sea itself to bring to birth diverse kinds of creeping things and to pour forth according to their kind whatever it had formed. Not the small whirlpools, not the muddy marshes were idle, but all took up the power of creating given to them.
The fishes leaped out of the river, the dolphins played before the waves; about the rocks the night-creatures clung, the sea-urchins grew. Woe is me! Before man, allurement began — the mother of our luxury; before man, dainties. Before man, therefore, was the temptation rather than the creature. But nature did wrong in nothing: it gave nourishment, it did not prescribe vices. These things it gave in common, that you should not claim any as it were as your own. For you the earth brings forth its fruits; for you both the parrot-wrasses and all things — the waters generate their offspring; and not content with these, you have tasted the foods forbidden to you. To your reproach all things are heaped together, that the transgression of your greed may be burdened.
But neither how many species and names there are can we recount, all of which were animated in a moment at the divine command. At once the form of the body was put together and the soul was at work, the vital vigor too something of power. The earth was filled with growths, the sea filled with living creatures. There the insensible things sprout, here the sensible things move about. On the lands too the waters claim for themselves their portions. The fishes of the waters lap the earth and seek for themselves prey from it; the gnats too buzz about your breeding marshes; and these too heard the command of the Lord saying: 「Let the waters bring forth creeping things of living souls.」 We know that creeping things...
...are said to be kinds of serpents, because they creep upon the earth; but much more does everything that swims have either the appearance or the manner of creeping. For even if some of them, having plunged into the deep, seem to sink into the water, yet when they swim upon its surface, they creep with the whole body, which they drag over certain backs of the waters. Whence also David said: 「This great sea, and of mighty deeds; there are creeping things, of which there is no number.」
Moreover, although very many have feet and the use of walking — because they are amphibious, living either in the waters or on the lands, as are seals, crocodiles, and the horses which they call hippopotami, because these are wont to be generated in the Nile — yet when they are in the deep of the waters, they do not walk but swim, nor with the footstep for advancing, but as it were with an oar for creeping; since indeed a ship too, driven by oars, glides and the reed-pole furrows the waters. 「Let the waters bring forth creeping things,」 said the Lord. A brief word, but vehement and broadly extending, it infuses a nature common to the least and the greatest. In the same moment the great fish is brought forth in which the frog is born by the same force of operation. God does not labor over the greatest, nor disdains the least.
Nor does nature feel pain in giving birth to dolphins, just as she felt no pain when she brought forth the tiny purple-fish and snails. Mark, O man, how many more there are in the sea than on the lands. Number, if you can, all the kinds of fishes, whether of the small or even of the largest, the cuttlefishes, the shellfish, the crayfishes, the crabs, and among these innumerable kinds of their own sort. What shall I say of the kinds of serpents, the dragons that are asserted in Job? Nor will I pass over the scorpions, the frogs, the tortoises, the weasels too and the sea-dogs, the sea-calves, the monstrous whales, the dolphins, the seals, the lions.
What of the sea's blackbirds too, the thrushes, the peacocks as well, whose very colors we see expressed in the birds — so that the blackbirds are black, the peacocks painted on their backs and necks with changing color, the thrushes mottled on the belly, and the rest? Whose species and names the lands have claimed for themselves? For first these began in the sea, in the rivers, since indeed the water, bidden by the divine nod, first brought forth the creeping things of living souls. Add this grace, that the things we fear on the lands we love in the waters. For things harmful on the lands are harmless in the water, and the very water-snakes are without venom. The lion is fierce on the lands, gentle in the floods. The lamprey, which they say has something harmful, is a more precious food.
The frog, hideous in the marshes, comely in the waters, surpasses almost all foods. If anyone foolishly wishes to learn more, let him inquire of the various fishermen of the places; for no one can comprehend all things. The sea-dogs indeed, beware of them even in the sea, whom the Apostle teaches to be troublesome and to be guarded against in the Church also, saying: 「Beware of dogs, beware of evil workers.」 The weasel has a heavy odor on the lands, but in the waters it is preserved. The earthly kind knows how to avenge itself by its stench; this one has no less grace caught than free. Nor will I let you go unhonored by our pursuit, O grayling, to whom the name has clung from the flower. Whether the wave of the river Ticinus or the wave of pleasant Athesis has nourished you, you are a flower.
In short, there is a rather well-attested saying, wittily spoken of that which gives off a pleasing sweetness: 「It smells either of fish or of flower」; thus the same odor was pronounced to be that of a fish which is of a flower. What is more pleasing than your appearance, what more delightful than your sweetness, what of a more rocky sweetness? What the honeycombs exhale, this you breathe forth from your own body. What shall I say of the ravens of the sea, what too of the wolves it has called forth? The lamb knows not to fear these wolves. So great is the grace of the waters, whose sea-calves both wolves and lions flee. So that that prophetic saying of the mind concerning the holiness of the Church rightly fits them: 「The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion and the ox shall eat straw together.」
Nor is it a wonder, since even in the Church the waters work this — that the washed-away wickedness of robbers may be compared with the innocent. What too shall I mention of the purple-fishes, which adorn the banquets of kings and steep their garments? It is of the waters, therefore, what is adored in kings; it is of the waters, that splendor which gleams. Add the sea-swine, pleasing even to the Jews, because nothing is common which the water does not wash away, and therefore they cannot reckon them common, as though produced on the land. Innumerable, then, are the uses, innumerable the kinds of fishes. Some generate eggs, like the various larger ones which they call trout, and commit them to the waters to be cherished.
The water, therefore, gives life and creates, and to this very day it carries out the office of that first command as though it were a perpetual law — a kind of gentle mother of living creatures. Some bring forth living young from their own bodies, such as weasels and dogfish and the huge sea-monsters, dolphins and seals and other beasts of this kind. When these have brought forth their offspring, if perchance they perceive any threat of ambush or terror to their young from anyone whatever, in order to protect them, or to calm with a mother's love the fearfulness of their tender age, they are said to open their mouths and suspend their offspring on harmless teeth, and even to take them back within their inner body and hide them in the womb that bore them. What human affection could imitate this devotion of fishes?
Kisses are enough to satisfy us; for them it is not enough to open their inward parts and take their young back and recall them whole, and again by a kind of warmth to revive them with their own heat, and to foster them with their own breath, and to make two live in one body, until either they bring them safety or, interposing their own bodies, defend their young from dangers. Who, seeing this, even though he might be able to do so, would not yield to so great a devotion of fishes? Who would not be struck with amazement, that nature should preserve in fishes what it does not preserve in men? Very many, prompted by suspicion through a stepmother's hatred, have killed their own sons; others, as we read, in famine have devoured their own offspring.
For human pledges of love a mother has become a tomb, while for the fish's offspring the parent's womb, like a wall with a kind of rampart of its innermost parts, keeps the pledges unharmed. Different kinds of fish, then, have different practices: some produce eggs, others bring forth living and fully formed young. And those that produce eggs do not weave nests like birds, nor undertake the labour of prolonged brooding, nor nourish their young with trouble to themselves. The egg has dropped, which the water, in a certain bosom of its own nature, has received like a gentle nurse and, by a swift warming, has rendered a living animal. For straightway, animated by the touch of its parent, the egg dropped and a fish came forth. And then, how pure and inviolate is the succession! So that none mingles with another, but with its own kind: grayling with grayling, pike with pike!
The scorpion-fish too preserves the chastity of an unstained union, begetting only its own kind. It thus possesses the modesty of its kind, yet does not possess the venom of its kind; for the scorpion-fish does not strike, but restores. Creatures of another kind, then, know nothing of adulterous unions with a partner of a foreign species — such as those which, through the great pains of men, are perpetrated by the coupling of asses and mares with each other, or again when she-asses are mated with horses, which are truly of an adulterous nature; for surely that which is committed to the defilement of nature is a greater thing than what is done to the injury of a person. And you, O man, contrive these things as the broker of a beast's adultery, and you used to think that animal more — what is adulterous than what is true!
You yourself confound foreign kinds and mix diverse seeds, and for the most part drive the unwilling to forbidden couplings, and you call this skill. And because you cannot do this with men — so that the careless mingling of diverse stocks might bring forth offspring — you take from a man that which has been born, and from a man you make a man-less creature, and by cutting off part of the body you deny his sex, you make him a eunuch, so that what nature denied in men your audacity might fulfil. But how good a mother the water is, consider also from this. You, O man, have taught the disinheriting of children by their fathers, separations, hatreds, offences: learn what bonds the kinship of parents and children should keep undivided.
Fishes cannot live without water, nor be separated from the fellowship of their parent, nor severed from the office of their nurse; and this happens by a certain natural law, that once separated they die at once. For they do not, like all the creatures of this air, live by breathing, since the nature of drawing in and breathing out breath is not given to them; otherwise they could not always live beneath the waters, not receiving the inflow of breath. What breath is to us, water is to them. As breath supplies to us, so water supplies to them the substance of living. We, when the passage of breath is cut off — since we cannot for even a brief span be without the vital breath — are at once extinguished; fishes too, when taken out of the water, cannot exist without that which is their substance.
And the cause is plain, since in us the lung, through the wider recesses of the chest, receives the breath, and, being itself penetrable through its many pores, cools the inner heat by the inflow of breath. For the chest, as it receives nourishment, so it separates the superfluous parts of food from the wholesome juices and the blood; and the lung gathers up these juices, whence the inspiration of breath can more easily reach it. Fishes, however, have gills, which they now fold and draw together, now spread out and open. In this folding and opening, therefore, while the water is taken in and passed through and penetrates, the office of respiration seems to be fulfilled.
The nature of fishes, then, is peculiar and not shared with other creatures: a special mode of life, and a kind of substance for living set apart and secret from all others. For this reason they are not fed, nor, like land animals, are they delighted by the touch of the human hand and by any soothing, even if they live kept in their own ponds. But what shall I say of the close-set rows of their teeth? For they do not, like sheep or oxen, have teeth on one side only, but both sides are armed with teeth, because they are in the water; and if they should turn their food over too long and not pass it down quickly, their food might be carried off from their teeth and dissolved by waters of that sort. Therefore they have teeth close-set and sharp, so that they may quickly cut and quickly finish their food, and easily and without any delay or postponement pass it down.
Finally, they do not chew the cud; yet the parrot-fish alone among them is said to chew the cud, as those report whose experience or practice or zeal it has been to grasp such things. Indeed even these fish have not escaped the violence of their own kind, and, subjected to the greed of the stronger, are everywhere the weaker. The weaker each one is, the more it lies open as prey. And most indeed feed on plants and tiny worms; yet there are some which devour one another in turn and feed on their own flesh. Among them the smaller is food for the greater, and again the greater itself is attacked by a mightier, and the predator of another becomes food for yet another.
And so it comes about that, when one has devoured another, it is itself devoured by another, and both meet in one belly, the devoured together with its own devourer, and there is at once in one stomach the fellowship of prey and of vengeance. And perhaps this wrong has grown up among them of their own accord, just as among us it began not from nature but from greed; or because they were given for the use of men, they were also made into a sign, that in them we might see the vices of our own ways and beware of the examples, lest any stronger one should attack a weaker — about to suffer in himself the wrong he inflicts on the mightier. And so he who harms another prepares a snare for himself, into which he himself may fall. And you too are a fish, who invade another's vitals, who drown the weak, who pursue the one who yields, even into the deep.
Beware, while you pursue him, lest you yourself fall upon a stronger, and lest one whom you avoid lead you into another's ambush — one who shuns your own snares and beforehand looks for your calamity, who, while you pursued him, was dreading his own. What difference is there between a rich man who, in the gluttony of wicked greed, swallows up the patrimonies of the weak, and a sheatfish with its belly filled by the entrails of smaller fish? The rich man has died, and his spoils profited him nothing; nay rather, the infamy of his plunderings made him the more detestable. The sheatfish has been caught, and its useless prey laid bare. How many are found within it, that had devoured others! And you, rich man, hold within your bosom the plunderer of another. He held the goods of the poor, which he had seized;
you, oppressing him, have added two patrimonies to your own resources, and still you are not satisfied with so great an increase, and you say that you have taken vengeance on others, while you commit the very things you punish — more unjust than the unjust, more iniquitous than the iniquitous, more greedy than the greedy. Beware lest the same end find you that found that fish: the hook of the sun and the nets. But you presume on your power, that no one can resist you: the sheatfish too presumed that no one would cast a hook for it, no one would spread nets, and that, if it should fall in, it would break them all asunder; and yet it did not escape the trident, or it ran into the bonds of a stronger fetter, from which it could not extricate itself.
Without doubt, the iniquity of men too, the graver the crimes it has committed, the less can it be safe in its own wickedness, but at some time must pay the penalty which, as the price of its crimes, is plainly hard to escape. You are therefore a fish, O man. Hear that you are a fish: 'The kingdom of heaven is like a net cast into the sea, which gathered of every kind of fish. And when it was filled, they drew it to the shore, and sitting down they chose out the best into their vessels, but the bad they cast away. So shall it be at the consummation of the age. The angels shall go forth and shall separate the wicked from the midst of the just, and shall cast them into the furnace of fire.' There are, then, both good and bad fish;
the good are kept for a price, the bad straightway burn. The good fish the nets do not entangle but lift up, and the hook does not slay it utterly and pierce it through, but bathes it in the blood of a precious wound, in the confession of whose mouth a good price is found — by which is paid the apostolic tribute and the tax proper to Christ. For thus it is written, the Lord saying: 'Of whom do the kings of the earth receive tribute or tax? Of their own sons, or of strangers?' And when Peter answered 'Of strangers,' the Lord said: 'Go to the sea and cast a hook, and take that fish which first comes up; and when you have opened its mouth, you will find there a stater. Take it and give it for me and for you.' Do not therefore, O good fish, fear the hook of your own kind; it does not kill, but consecrates.
Do not despise yourself as though worthless, because you see your body weak. You have in your mouth that which you may offer both for Peter and for Christ. Do not fear the nets of Peter, to whom Jesus says: 'Launch out into the deep and let down your nets'; for he does not cast them to the left side but to the right, as he was bidden by Christ. Do not fear his folds, because it was said to him: 'From henceforth you shall be giving life to men.' Therefore he cast his nets and embraced Stephen, who first ascended from the Gospel, having in his mouth the stater of righteousness. By his steadfast confession he cried aloud, saying: 'Behold, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.' For this fish the Lord Jesus stood; for he knew there was in his mouth the price of his tax.
Finally, by his glorious martyrdom, this wealthy advocate fulfilled both the judgement and teaching of Peter and the grace of Christ. Nor let it disturb you that I have put the Gospel in place of the sea. The Gospel it is, in which Christ walked: the Gospel it is, in which, though Peter wavered when he denied, yet through the right hand of Christ he found the safeguard of faith, the grace of standing firm: the Gospel it is, from which the martyr ascends: the Gospel is the sea, in which the apostles fish, into which the net is cast which is like the kingdom of heaven: the Gospel is the sea, in which the things of Christ are figured by their own likenesses: the Gospel is the sea, in which the Hebrew escaped and the Egyptian was destroyed:
the Gospel is the sea, because the Church, the bride of Christ and the fullness of divine grace, is founded upon the seas, as the prophet said: 'He himself has founded it upon the seas.' Leap out upon the waves, O man, for you are a fish. Let not the waves of this world overwhelm you. If there is a storm, make for the high and the deep; if calm, sport among the waves; if a tempest, beware the rocky shore, lest the raging surge dash you against the crag; for it is written: 'Be wise as serpents.' And since the example was set before us from wise serpents, let us be wise concerning the seeking and keeping of marriage bonds, let us love the partnerships allotted to us.
And if those who had been born of distant flowers, separated from one another by time and region, should come together, and if one should strive after foreign things, let no poverty, no want, lessen the love that has won approval. The same law binds together the present and the absent; the same bond of nature, and so the same laws of charity, has bound fast both the distant and those near at hand; under the same yoke of blessing the necks of both are joined together, even if one should go to the long divorce of separated regions, because it is not by the neck of the body but by the yoke of the mind that they have received the grace.
The viper, a most wicked kind of beast and craftier than all that are of the serpent kind — when, then, it is seized with the desire of coupling, it seeks out for itself the partner known to it, the sea-eel, or prepares a new one; and going forward to the shore and testifying its presence with a hiss, it calls forth the eel to a conjugal embrace; and the eel, being invited, is not wanting, but imparts to the venomous serpent the desired use of its union. What does a discourse of this kind mean, except that the ways of spouses are to be borne with, and, if one is absent, his presence is to be awaited? Though he be rough, deceitful, uncouth, slippery, drunken — what is worse than venom, which the eel does not flee in its mate? Being called it is not wanting, and with diligent love it embraces the slippery one.
He bears your faults and the easygoing levity of a woman's nature; can you, woman, not bear with your husband? Adam was deceived through Eve, not Eve through Adam. Him whom the woman called to fault, it is just that she should take as her guide, lest again she slip through womanish levity. But he is rough and uncultivated: once he pleased you. Is a husband to be chosen often? Even the ox seeks its mate, and the horse loves it; and if another be substituted, yet the mate of another knows not how to draw the yoke and does not deem itself whole: do you reject your spouse and think you must change often, and, if he fail for a single day, do you bring in a rival, and at once, with the cause unknown as though known, do you exact vengeance for an injury to your modesty? The viper seeks its absent mate.
It calls the absent one and summons it with a coaxing hiss; and when it perceives its mate approaching, it spews out its venom, showing reverence to its spouse, abashed before the grace of wedlock: but you, woman, drive off with insults the husband who comes from afar. The viper looks out over the sea, scans the path of its consort: but you bar the way to your husband with wrongs, you stir up the venom of quarrels, you do not lay it aside; you, at the time of conjugal embrace, boil over with dire poison, and you neither blush at the marriage bed nor revere your husband. But you too, husband — for thus also we may take it — lay aside the swelling of your heart, the harshness of your ways, when a diligent wife defers to you; drive away your indignation, when your coaxing spouse calls you to love. You are not a master, but a good one; you have been allotted not a handmaid, but a wife.
God willed you to be a guide; let us look to the lesser one, not as one all-powerful. Repay zeal with its like, repay grace to love for love. The viper pours out its venom: can you not lay aside the hardness of your mind? But you have a natural sternness: you ought to temper it by the contemplation of marriage, and by reverence for your union to lay aside the fierceness of your spirit. It can be put thus also: 'Do not seek, you husbands, another's bed; do not lie in wait for another's union. Adultery is grievous; it is an injury to nature.' God at first made two, Adam and Eve, that is, husband and wife, and the wife from the husband, that is, from the rib of Adam, and he bade both to be in one body and to live in one spirit. Why do you separate one body? Why do you divide one spirit? It is an adultery against nature.
This the embrace sought by the eel and the viper teaches — sought not by the law of kind, but by the ardour of lust. Learn, you men: whoever seeks to defile another's wife, whose companionship he desires to claim for himself, is even to be likened to the serpent. He hastens to the viper, who creeps into a man's lap not by the straight path of truth, but by the slippery course of an erring, boyish love. He hastens to her who resumes her venom like the viper, which is said, when the duty of union is accomplished, to drink up again the venom it had spewed out; for the viper is an adulteress. Whence also Solomon says that he who has become drunken, when through wine lust is wont to grow hot, is stretched out as by the stroke of a snake, and as from a horned serpent its venom is poured upon him.
And that you may know he spoke of the adulteress, he added: 'When your eyes shall have looked upon a strange woman, your mouth shall speak perverse things.' Nor let anyone suppose that we have set down contradictory things, in that we have used the example of this viper both for good and for ill, since each tends toward instruction, if we blush either not to show faith to one we love — which the serpent shows — or, abandoning holy marriages, to prefer the slippery and the harmful to the wholesome, which he does who mingles with the serpent.
And since we have begun to weave our discourse concerning cunning, by which each one strives to circumvent and deceive his brother and to compose himself for new frauds, so that one whom he cannot overcome by force he may entrap by guile and overlay with a certain dye of artifice, I will not pass over that fraudulent device of the polyp, which, finding a rock on the shoaly shore, fastens itself to it, and by its cloudy cunning takes on the rock's colour, and, with its back overlaid in a like appearance, shuts up in the snares of its furtive art the fish that have glided up undeservedly, without any suspicion of fraud — while they suppose it has not been noticed and is a rock — and intercepts them in a certain fold of its own flesh. Thus the prey comes of its own accord.
And one is caught by such devices as are those of men who often change their disposition and set in motion diverse arts of doing harm, so as to sound out the minds and senses of individuals — among the self-controlled, taking their stand and preaching continence; in a company of the intemperate, as though straying from the pursuit of chastity and plunged into the wallowings of intemperance — so that those who hear or see them may, with incautious readiness, trust them, and the more quickly slip thereby, while they know not how to turn aside or to beware of what may harm them, since wickedness veiled and overshadowed is graver and more noxious. And therefore those are to be guarded against who spread out the tresses and the arms of their fraud far and wide, or put on a manifold appearance.
For these are polyps, having very many coils and the traces of crafty wits, by which they can ensnare whatever falls upon the rocks of their fraud. The crab too, what tricks it contrives for the sake of food! For it too is delighted with the oyster and seeks for itself a banquet of its flesh. But because the catching is both difficult and dangerous — difficult, because the inner morsel is shut up within stronger shells; for nature, as the interpreter of the imperial command, has fortified the soft flesh as with certain walls, which she nourishes and fosters in a certain hollow recess in the midst of the shells, and as it were pours it out in a kind of valley;
and therefore all the crab's attempts are vain, since by no force can it open the closed oyster, and it is dangerous, if the oyster should shut in its claw — the crab takes refuge in stratagems and contrives ambushes with a new fraud. And so, because all kinds of creatures are soothed by pleasure, it watches whether at any time the oyster, in remote places now far from the sun's rays, opens that two-leaved shell of its and unbars the bolts of its valves, that it may take a certain delight of its flesh in the free air; and then, secretly slipping in a pebble, it hinders the closing of the oyster, and thus, finding the bolts opened, safely inserts its claws and feeds upon the inner flesh.
There are, then, men who by the practice of the crab creep into the way of circumventing another, and prop up the weakness of their own strength by a certain craft, weave a snare for a brother, and feed upon another's distress: but be you content with your own, and let another's losses not feed you. The simplicity of innocence is good food. It, intent upon its own goods, knows not how to lie in wait for another's, nor is it kindled with the torches of greed. To it every gain is a loss to virtue, a conflagration to desire. And therefore poverty with truth is blessed, if it knows its own goods, and is to be preferred to all treasures, because 'better is a little given with the fear of God than great treasures without fear.' For how much is it that may feed a man?
Or if you seek that which may abound also for others unto grace, that too is not much; for 'better is hospitality with herbs and grace than the preparation of fatted calves with discord.' Let us therefore use our wit for seeking grace and for guarding our salvation, not as an example for circumventing another's. We may use examples drawn from the sea for the advancement of our own salvation, not for the peril of another's. The sea-urchin, a small animal, cheap and contemptible — I speak of the sea creature — is generally an index of a coming storm, and tends to be of various forewarnings to mariners. Finally, when it has perceived beforehand a gale of winds, it seizes a stout pebble and carries it as ballast and drags it like an anchor, lest it be tossed about.
And so it does not balance itself by its own strength, but steadies and governs itself by another's weight. By which sign sailors seize, as it were, a token of the coming disturbance and rouse themselves, lest a sudden whirlwind find them unprepared. What mathematician, what astrologer — nay, what Chaldean — can so comprehend the courses of the stars, the motions of the sky and its signs? By what wit did it gather these things, by what teacher did it learn them? Who was for it the interpreter of so great an augury? Men see the confusion of the air and are often deceived, because for the most part it disperses without a storm: the sea-urchin is not deceived, its own signs in no way pass it by. Whence comes to so small an animal such great knowledge, that it should foretell things to come?
The more there is nothing in it whereby it could possess so great a faculty as true, the more must you believe that, through the indulgence of the Lord of all things, this creature too has received of this its kindred foreknowledge.
For indeed, if God so clothes the grass that we marvel, if he feeds the birds, if for each one he has prepared food for the raven — for its young cry to the Lord — if he has given to women the wisdom of weaving, if he has not left even the spider, which so subtly and skilfully hangs its loose nets in doorways, without a share of wisdom, if he himself has given strength to the horse and loosed terror from its neck, that it may exult in the field and, going to meet kings, scorn vanity, scent the battle from afar, be roused by the sound of the trumpet — if he has filled these many irrational creatures and other senseless things, like the grass, like the lilies, by the ordering of his wisdom, why do we doubt that to the sea-urchin too he has conferred the grace of this foreknowledge? For he has left nothing unexplored, nothing neglected.
He who feeds all things sees all things; he who made all things in wisdom fills all things with wisdom, as it is written. And therefore, if he has not passed over the sea-urchin as outside his visitation, if he considers it and forms it with the indications of things to come, does he not consider you? Nay rather, he does consider you, as his divine wisdom testifies, saying: 'If he regards the birds, if he feeds them, are you not of more value than they? For if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is and tomorrow is cast into the fire, how much more you, O you of little faith?' Or do we suppose that even that grace remains to fishes without a certain dowry of nature — that every kind of fish has dwellings prescribed for it, which none of its own kind oversteps, nor does a foreigner invade?
What geometer divided these dwelling-places for them, to be broken by no seasons? But we have heard of a geometer; of a 'sea-measurer' we have never heard: and yet fishes know their own measure, prescribed not by the walls of cities and their gates, not limited by the buildings of houses, not by the boundaries of fields, but the measure of what is fitting — so that just so much should be enough for each as suffices for use to abound, not so much as a certain immoderate greed claims for itself. There is a certain law of nature: to seek only so much as suffices for sustenance, and to reckon the portion of one's patrimony by the measure of nourishment. This kind of fish is nourished and bred in that gulf of the sea, that in another.
Finally, you will not find the kinds of fish confused, but what abounds here is again lacking elsewhere. That gulf of the sea nourishes mullets, that one bass, that one — and another lobsters. There is no free power of wandering, nor yet is their abundance shut off by mountains or their passage hindered by intervening rivers, but a usage impressed by nature, that each should keep itself as it were within the boundaries of its homeland, and that to go beyond as an inhabitant is suspect. But with us it is far otherwise: to change our houses by exile, to be held by disdain of the inhabitants, to court the favour of strangers, to move the perpetual landmarks which our fathers set, to join field to field, house to house.
The earth is slain for men, and the seas too are paved over; again, according to each man's lust, the land is cut into and the sea is poured in, that they may make islands and possess the straits. They claim for themselves the expanses of the sea by right of ownership, and they recount that the rights of the fish, as of home-bred slaves under the condition of servitude, are subjected to themselves. 'This gulf of the sea,' he says, 'is mine, that another's': the powerful claim even the elements for themselves. For these men oysters are nourished in the waves, for these a fish is shut up in a fishpond. For luxury not even the sea suffices, unless they have storehouses of oysters. And so they reckon up their ages and build receptacles for fish, lest a banquet cannot be filled with the seas. For with what ears do they hear, with what eyes do they look upon, the name of a neighbour and their possessions!
How they devise day and night, that they may take something away from their neighbours! 'Shall you alone dwell upon the earth?' cries the prophet. The Lord knows these things and reserves them for vengeance. How alien from fishes is the rapine of greed! They seek out the natural recesses and know the sea beyond the bounds of the world — a sea which no islands interrupt, nor does any land lie between, nor is any further land set beyond. There, then, where the sea spread far and wide cuts off all opportunity of beholding, and, for utility's sake, bars the boldness of navigation, the sea-monsters are said to hide themselves — those immense kinds of fish, bodies equal to mountains, as they have handed down to us who were able to see them.
There they pass a quiet age, set apart from islands and separated from all the contagions of maritime cities; they have their own regions and dwellings distributed to them. They abide in these within the unviolated boundary of their neighbours, nor with wandering passage do they seek changes of place, but as their native soil they love them and deem it sweet to linger in them. These they chose for this reason, that they might pass a solitary life, far removed from the interruption of onlookers.
Yet there are some kinds of fish which change their places not from any easiness of disposition, but from the necessity of fostering their offspring; procuring this at a fitting and lawful time, they gather as it were by a common counsel from very many places and from a different gulf of the sea, and in a joined column they make for the seas of the north, and by a certain law of nature strive toward that sea to bring forth their young. You would say, if you saw them ascending, that it was a kind of tidal flood; so do they rush forth and cleave the waves, flowing with violent onset through the Propontis into the Euxine. Who announces these places to the fish, who appoints them the times? Who grants them the disposition of the journey, the order of accompanying, the goals and the times of returning?
Men, to be sure, have an emperor, whose command is awaited; the token goes forth, edicts are published to the provincials that they assemble, letters are dispatched to the military tribunes, a day is appointed: and yet most are unable to arrive by the appointed days. What emperor gave a command to the fishes, what teacher imparted this discipline to them, who are the surveyors that lay out their routes, who the guides that direct their journey, so that none of them fails to appear? But I recognize who that emperor is, who by divine ordinance pours his command into the senses of all creatures, who silently bestows upon dumb living things the order of a natural discipline, who not only penetrates great things but also diffuses himself through every least thing. The fish obeys the divine law, and men contradict it.
The fish solemnly obeys the heavenly commands, and men render void the precepts of God. Or does the fish seem contemptible to you, because it is dumb and devoid of reason? But take heed lest you begin rather to be an object of contempt to yourself, if you are found to be more irrational than the seas. And what is more rational than this migration of the fishes, whose reasoning they do not indeed set forth in words, but declare by their deeds? For in the summer season they make for the strait of Pontus, because this gulf is sweeter than the rest of the sea's expanse. For the sun does not linger upon its waves so long as upon the others, and this is the reason that the sea does not exhaust all its water that is sweet and drinkable. And who does not know that even creatures of the sea are for the most part delighted by sweet waters?
In short, while they follow the rivers and ascend to the higher waters, fishes of an alien kind are often caught in the sea. Since therefore this cause makes Pontus more pleasing to them, both because the solemn blast of the north wind there tempers the heat, they judge it more suitable than the rest, as a place in which they can breed and bring forth their young and rear them all, since their tender offspring could scarcely bear the hardship of an alien region, whereas there the gentle mildness of the air fosters them. And so, when their duty is accomplished, they all return together in the same throng in which they had come. Let us consider what this reasoning may be.
The gulf of Pontus is exposed to the most violent blasts of the north wind and of the other winds, so that if a heavy storm rages there, tempests are stirred up, in such a way that sand is churned up from the deep — of which the sandy wave is the sign — which, rising higher by the motion of the winds and then heavier by its weight, is held to be intolerable not only to those who sail but even to the sea-creatures themselves. There is added this, that since very many and very great rivers are mingled with Pontus, in winter-time the gulf itself becomes colder and stiffens with all the chill of the torrents.
Therefore the fishes, as it were arbiters of the currents, in summer strive there to seize the mildness of the northern breeze when the air grows rough; and having enjoyed its pleasantness, they again hasten to shun the harshness of winter, and fleeing the savagery of the northern region they betake themselves to the other gulfs, in which either the calm of the winds is gentler or the temperateness of the sun is wont to bring spring. The fish therefore knows the time of bringing forth, which the wisdom of Solomon declared to be a great mystery; it knows the time of going and returning, it knows the time of fulfilling its task and of casting forth, and it knows it so that it cannot be deceived, because it employs not the estimation of reason nor the argument of disputation, but the inspiration of nature, which is the true teacher of piety.
In short, all living creatures have set times for bringing forth that must be observed; man alone has them undistinguished and confused. The other kinds seek the mildness of the season; women alone pour out their offspring without regard to the season; for a wandering and intemperate lust of begetting displays a wandering season of bringing forth. The fish passes over such distances there in order to seek some advantage for its kind; we too cross the wide seas; but how much more honourable is what is undertaken for love of progeny than what is undertaken for greed of money? In short, with them the crossing is reckoned for piety, with us for gain. They bring back offspring for all their wares; we bring back, in exchange for danger, a far unequal merchandise in our wretched desire for profit.
And so they seek again their native land, while we forsake ours: by swimming an increase of their kind is gained for them, while by sailing it is diminished for us. Who then would deny that an instinct of this sort and a power has been divinely infused into them, when he sees these creatures arranging with a lively instinct so solemn a pilgrimage northward for the sake of fertility, and others assuming in their tiny bodies such great strength that here they bring to a standstill in the midst of the waves the greatest ships running under full sail — just as the little fish called the echeneis (remora) is recorded with such ease to halt a huge ship, that you would see it cling as though rooted to the sea and not be moved; for it keeps it immovable for some time. Or do you suppose that to this creature too such great power could have been supplied without the gift of the Creator?
Why should I speak of the swordfish, or the sawfish, or the sea-dogs (sharks), or the whales, or the hammerheads, why too of the sting of the stingray, and that even when dead? For just as the viper, if anyone tread on it while it is fresh, is said to harm more grievously than its venom and to make an incurable wound spread, so too the stingray, even dead, is recorded to bring more danger by its sting than when alive. The little hare also, a timid animal on land, is fearsome in the sea, and brings on a swift corruption that cannot easily be repelled. For your Creator willed that you should not be wholly secure from those that lie in wait even in the sea, so that, on account of the few things that may harm, you should, as though set on guard, ever hope for the protection of salvation from your Lord with the arms of faith and the shield of devotion.
Let us come to the Atlantic sea. How huge are the whales there, of boundless magnitude, which, if ever they swim upon the waves, you would think islands were walking, that the loftiest mountains were rising with their topmost peaks to heaven! These are seen to be carried not on the shore nor along the coasts, but in the deep of the Atlantic sea, so that at the sight of them sailors are called back from any presumption of navigating in those places, and do not dare to approach the secret recesses of the elements without the supreme terror of death. But let us now ourselves rise up from the deep of the sea, and let our discourse emerge somewhat and raise itself to the higher things.
Let us consider only those things which are familiar to many and full of grace: how water is turned into the solidity of salt, so that it is often cut with iron — which is no wonder in the case of British salts, which gleam in the likeness of solid marble of that same metal with snowy whiteness, wholesome as food for the body and exceedingly pleasing for drink; how too the not-uncomely coral is a plant in the sea, but if it be transferred into the air, it is hardened into the firmness of stone; whence too nature has implanted in oysters the most precious pearl; how the water of the sea places it in flesh so soft. Things that are found with difficulty among kings lie commonly upon the shores, as it were at midday, and are gathered upon the rough rocks and crags.
The water also nourishes a golden fleece, and the shores produce a wool in the likeness of the metal mentioned, whose colour none yet of those who dye fleeces with various dyes has been able to imitate. So far is human industry unable to fill up the grace of sea-born nature. We know with what care the fleeces of sheep, even the less precious, are tended; though they be the finest, yet no dye is ever born in them. But here is a natural colour which no dye has yet equalled. This too is the fleece of a fish (the pinna). And the murex-snails themselves, which give the royal purple, are creatures of the sea. And what grace of meadows or pleasantness of gardens can equal the picture of the dark-blue sea?
Though flowers gleam in the meadows in their flight, the wool too shines back the splendour of gold as its substitute; and those flowers quickly wither, while this endures long. Nature is preserved: in the gardens things shine from afar, the sails on the ships; here is fragrance, there the wind breathes. What use is in a leaf? In ships how great are the dealings of commerce! Lilies bring sweetness to the nostrils, sails bring the safety of men. Add the leaping fishes and the sporting dolphins, add the waves resounding with hoarse murmur, add the ships running to the shores or putting out from the shores. And when the four-horse chariots are sent forth from the starting-gates, with what zeal and love of the spectators is the contest waged! Yet the horse runs to no purpose, the ships not to no purpose: the former to no purpose, because empty; the latter to advantage, as though laden with grain.
What is more pleasing than vessels that are driven not by the lash but by the breath of the winds, where there is no adversary but all are supporters, where no one is vanquished, whoever has arrived, but all the sterns that have made the passage are crowned, where the palm is the reward of safety, and victory is the prize of return? For how great is the difference between straight courses and reversed ones! These are made everlasting, those are the warriors'. Add the shores fitted out with rowing fleets, for which the banner of setting out is a breeze from heaven. And so the charioteers carry back an empty applause, these pay their vows for being saved. What worthy thing shall I say of Jonah, whom the whale received unto life and gave back unto the grace of prophesying?
The water amended him whom the land had turned aside; he sang psalms in the belly of the whale who had mourned on land; and, that the redemption of neither element might be passed over, the salvation of the lands came first beforehand in the sea, because the sign of the Son of Man is a sign of one to be feared. Just as that man was in the belly of the whale, so was Jesus in the heart of the earth. In each there is a remedy, yet greater in the sea is the example of piety, since the fishes received him whom men rejected, and the fishes preserved him whom men crucified. Peter too totters in the sea, but does not fall, and confessing among the waves, he nevertheless denied on land. And so there he is grasped by the hand as though devout, here he is dismissed as though forgotten by the censorious glance.
But let us now entreat the Lord, that our discourse, like Jonah, may be cast out upon the land, lest it longer toss upon the open sea. And the gourd too came forth well, to overshadow us from our evils. But it itself, withered as the sun advances, warns us that we must rest, lest we begin to grow parched in our wit upon the land, and words even fail us. Surely a greater remission of sins has been granted to us in the waters than to the Ninevites. And when he had been silent for a little while, taking up his discourse again he said: A necessary disputation concerning the nature of the birds had escaped us, dearly beloved brethren, and a discourse of this kind had flown away from us together with the birds themselves.
For it is by a certain natural law that those who behold something, or wish to express by speaking the quality of the things they either behold or speak of, take on that quality, so that both with the more sluggish we are roused slowly and with the swift we are carried along by a rapid glance, and use a pen either slower or rapid. And so, while I take care lest the things sunk in the sea pass by and, covered by the waters, lie hidden from me, every winged thing eluded me; for while, bent down, I searched the lowest depths of the waters, I did not look back to the aerial flights, nor did even the shadow of the wing of a swift bird grace me, which might have shone in the waters.
But when I thought every task accomplished and believed myself to have finished, and judged the fifth day to be brought to its completion, there came to mind the birds, which, when they go to roost, as though glad at their duty done, are wont to soothe the air with song. This they are wont to renew, as it were solemnly, at the rising and the setting of the day, so that, having run their course, whether of the approaching night or of the day, they may render their praises to their Creator. So I had lost a great incitement to the rousing of our devotion. For who, bearing the understanding of a man, would not blush to close the day without the celebration of psalms, when even the tiniest birds attend with solemn devotion and sweet song upon the risings of days and nights?
Let then our winged discourse return to us, which had almost slipped from our eyes and, after the manner of the eagle seeking the heights, had veiled its weight in the clouds, had it not been that, as we lifted our eyes washed by water up from the gulf to heaven, beholding the empty air carried by the flights of birds, we judged that it must be recalled to the necessity of the pen. You shall be the judges, you who are fowlers of the word, whether it has flown out fruitlessly or has profitably fallen back into your nets. Nor do I fear lest weariness should creep upon us in pursuing the things of flight, which did not creep upon us in searching out the depths; or lest any of us should fall asleep in the disputation, when he can be roused by the songs of the birds.
But assuredly he who has kept watch among the dumb fishes, I do not doubt, cannot feel sleep among the tuneful birds, since he is provoked to wakefulness by such grace. Nor indeed should it be thought of small account, because it could have been passed over, since it is the third part among the living creatures of creation. For it is not doubtful that there are three kinds of living creatures: the earthly, the winged, the aquatic. In short, thus it is written: Let the waters bring forth creeping things of living souls after their kind, and fowl flying above the earth beneath the firmament of heaven after their kind. Let us be recalled to the higher matters, like forgetful travellers who, when they have inconsiderately passed something by, returning into their own footsteps, take up the great labour of retracing the journey on account of their carelessness.
Yet there is also a good traveller, who may make up for the loss of his backtracking by the compendious speed of the rest of his journey, as I judge I must do, especially since the discourse is about birds, which are wont to dazzle the eyes of men by their more hurried flight. For what is fitting in lingering over those things in which swiftness has been wont to please? Let then our discourse, wandering and unaccustomed in such a kind of writing, resound and re-echo among the tuneful birds. But whence to me the songs of the swan, which delight even under the heavy terror of impending death? Whence to me those natural strains of the singing, with which even the sounding marshes give forth songs most sweet in their pleasantness? Whence to me the voices of the parrot and the sweetness of the blackbirds?
Would that the nightingale might sing this, which rouses the sleeper from slumber; for that bird is wont to mark the turning of the rising day and to bring fuller gladness at dawn. Yet if their sweetness is wanting, there are the moaning turtle-doves and the hoarse pigeons, then too the crow with full voice calls for rain. Hence, in a rustic discourse such as we are able, let us pursue the knowledge which we country folk have been taught. And since we have spoken of the aquatic creeping things, it is a hard thing for our discourse suddenly to ascend to the birds of heaven. And therefore let us first speak of those birds which dwell about the waters of the sea and the rivers, together with which we are able to emerge. Let us therefore begin our discourse from the halcyon.
It is a sea-bird, which is wont to bring forth its young upon the shores, in such a way that it lays its eggs in the sands at about the middle of winter. For it has that season assigned for the cherishing of its brood, when the sea rises up most of all and dashes against the shores more violently. So much the more might the grace of this bird shine forth by the solemn festival of a sudden calm. For when the sea has been billowy, once the eggs are laid it suddenly grows mild, and all the squalls of the winds fall, and the gusts of the breezes are at rest, and the sea stands calm to the winds, until the halcyon cherishes her eggs. Now seven days are given to the brooding, on the completion of which she hatches her chicks and accomplishes the bringing-forth. Immediately she adds seven other days, in which to rear her young, until they begin to grow up.
Nor should you wonder at so brief a time of nurturing, since the completion of the brood is of so few days. But this little bird has such great grace divinely granted, that mariners observe these fourteen days of presumed serenity, which they also call the Halcyon Days, in which they dread no movements of stormy tempest. Are you not of more value than the sparrows? says the Lord.
If therefore, by the contemplation of so small a bird, both the rising sea and a sudden tranquillity poured upon all the elements amid the heavy squalls of winter and the rough blasts of the winds wipes away the clouds of heaven and composes the waves, how much, O man, ought you to presume, you who recognize that you were made in the image of God, if only you imitate the faith of that little bird by the zeal of devotion? She, seeing the tempests rise up and the winds rage amid the savagery of winter, is not called back nor turned away, but is driven on. In short, she sets her eggs upon the shore, where the receding wave receives them while the sand is still wet, nor does she dread the rising waves, which she sees murmur and glide up.
And lest you think that she seems to have contempt for her eggs, immediately, as soon as she has laid the eggs, she builds a nest and cherishes her young with her own body, nor does she fear for her own safety from the washing of the shore, but secure in the grace of God she commits herself to the winds and the waves. This is a small thing. She adds as many other days for the nurturing, nor does she fear that the tranquillity of the faithless sea will be interrupted for so many days, and she tests her own word, now established by the solemn law of nature. She does not hide her tender young in any lurking-places or under roofs, nor does she shut them up in caverns, but commits them to the bare and appointed ground, which defends them not from cold by any roof, but by a divine warmth, by which she reckons them safer, the more she despises all other things.
Which of us would not cover his little ones with garments, hide them under roofs, who would not shut them up within the enclosures of bedchambers, who would not so diligently block up the windows on every side, lest any breeze, even lightly, could penetrate? Deservedly, those whom we so anxiously clothe and cherish, we strip of the covering of heavenly mercy; whereas those whom she casts forth naked, the divine warmth clothes. Nor will I pass you by, you cormorants, to whom the name (mergus, diver) has clung from your constancy in diving. How, ever diving, you gather the signs of the breezes, and foreseeing the coming tempest you swiftly fly back from the open sea, and with a clamour withdraw to the safety of the shores!
How too, you coots — which delight in the deep of the sea — fleeing the commotion of the sea that you have foreknown, you sport in the shallows! The heron itself, which is wont to cling to the marshes, dreading the rains, flies above the clouds, so that it cannot feel the storms of the clouds. Let us consider the various birds of the sea, how, with the motion of the winds threatening, they betake themselves to safer pools, sweeter for them at that time, and in the hidden recess of the lands seek out for themselves the food they know. But who would not marvel at the nocturnal watches of the geese, which attest even their vigils by the constancy of their cry? In fact, by this very means they once saved the Roman Capitol from the Gallic foe. Deservedly, Rome, you owe it to them that you reign.
Your gods were sleeping, and the geese were keeping watch. Therefore in those days you sacrifice to a goose, and not frequently; for your gods yield to the geese, by whom they know they were defended, lest they themselves too should be captured by the enemy. But beautifully, after the description of the fishes, the discourse has passed on to those birds which are accustomed to the waters, because they too in like manner delight in the practice and the office of swimming. Hence the first kinship seems to belong to these birds with the fishes, since a certain common fellowship of swimming seems to belong to both kinds. A second kinship too belongs to the birds and the fishes, in that the manner of flying is a likeness of swimming. For just as the fish cleaves the water by swimming, so the bird cuts the air by its swift flight.
And to each kind alike there is at hand the rudder of the tail and the oarage of the wings, so that fishes may raise themselves forward as by a bridle and advance to what lies further on, and by the steering of the tail too may either turn themselves easily wherever they wish, or direct their course straight ahead by a certain impulse. Birds too, by their flights, swim as it were in the air as in waters, and extend, as it were, certain arms, and by the tail raise themselves to the higher regions or plunge to the lower. Hence, since in some respects there is the same practice and likeness, therefore from the waters the origin of each kind proceeded by divine command. For God said: Let the waters bring forth the creeping things of living souls after their kind, and fowl flying beneath the firmament of heaven after their kind.
Not undeservedly, therefore, since each kind is produced from the waters, the property of swimming belongs to both. Indeed, although the slippery snake also crushes as it presses upon serpents — for the name was given to the serpent for this reason, that they cannot walk but creep —, and dragons too in like manner are for the most part, like fishes, without feet, yet no kind of birds lacks the office of feet, because the sustenance of all is from the lands. And therefore they are supported by the use of feet, because they need such a service for seeking food. And so some winged creatures are armed with talons for seizing, like hawks and eagles, which exercise the plunder of hunting; others use a suitable practice and service either for walking or for procuring food for themselves.
But there is one name of birds, yet diverse kinds, which who could comprehend either by memory or by knowledge? There are accordingly birds that live by flesh undivided. Therefore these have rough talons, a curved and sharp beak, a swift flight, since they live by seizing, that they may be able easily to grasp the prey they pursue, and quickly to disembowel it with either beak or talons. There are also birds that feed on seed they have found, others on diverse and chance food. There is also a diversity of pairings, of whose grace those are deprived which intend upon plunder.
For on account of their greediness for plundering, or on account of their snares, not even among themselves do they agree, and therefore they shun the pairing of their own kind — for greed flees the fellowship of many —, and again, the conjunction of many would easily betray itself. To these birds, therefore, there is nothing of fellowship except the bond of wedlock. So this is the manner of life for eagles and hawks; but on the contrary the doves, cranes, starlings, ravens and crows, and even the thrushes, take great delight in association. Other kinds of birds too are native, which remain always in their places; others are migratory, which travel to other regions and, winter being ended, return. There are others.
Which in winter return, and in summer travel away from us, whether because some betake themselves in winter-time to warmer places, or because very many in turn pass the summer in those places which they have known to be more pleasant. The thrushes, in short, at the end of autumn, on the threshold of winter, as though the summer were spent, betake themselves back. For these we contrive snares with inhospitable cruelty, and strive by various means now to deceive them by a treacherous perch, now to beguile them by whistling, now to catch them by snares. The return of the stork lifts up the banner of spring. Cranes, because they seek the heights, love often to travel abroad. Some birds submit themselves to the hand and grow accustomed to the table and are soothed by touch; others are afraid.
Some delight in the same dwellings as men, others love a secluded life in the deserts, which compensate for the difficulty of seeking their food by the love of liberty. Some merely terrify with their voices, others delight with tuneful and sweet modulation. Some by nature, others by training, utter the distinctions of diverse voices, so that you would think a man had spoken, when a bird has spoken. How sweet is the voice of the blackbirds, how distinct the voice of the parrot! There are also others, simple like the doves, others cunning like the partridges; the cock is more boastful, the peacock more splendid.
There are also among birds diversities of life and of works, so that some love to take counsel in common and, with their forces joined, to manage as it were a certain commonwealth and to live as though under a king; others provide each one for himself, refuse rule, and, if they be captured, would rather depart from an unworthy servitude. Let us therefore begin from those which have given themselves to our use by imitation. For in those there is a certain natural polity and soldiery, in us a forced and servile one. With what unbidden and voluntary practice do the cranes maintain an anxious guard in the night! You may discern the watchmen posted, and, while the rest of the company of their kind sleep, some go around and reconnoitre, lest snares be attempted from any quarter, and they do not fail to bring vigilant protection by their own strength.
Afterward, when the time of the watches has been fulfilled, having discharged its office it composes itself to sleep, sending forth beforehand a clang, that it may rouse the sleeper to whom it is to hand over the turn of duty. And that other willingly takes up its lot, nor, after our manner, unwillingly and more sluggish, renounces sleep, but briskly is shaken from its bed, performs its turn, and renders the grace it has received with equal care and office. Therefore there is no desertion, because the devotion is natural; therefore the guard is safe, because the will is free. This order too they keep even in flying, and by this moderation they lighten all their labour, that by turns they may discharge the leadership by the counsel of office.
For one goes before the rest at the time appointed for itself and runs ahead, as it were before the standards; then it turns aside and yields to the one following the lot of leading the column. What is more beautiful than this — that both labour and honour should be common to all, and that power should not be arrogated to a few, but be transcribed by a certain voluntary lot to all? This is the office of the ancient commonwealth and the image of a free city. Thus from the beginning men had begun to exercise the polity received from nature after the example of the birds, so that the labour might be common, the dignity common, that by turns each might learn to share the cares, the obediences and the commands, that no one should be without a portion of honour, none exempt from labour.
This was the most beautiful state of affairs, and no one grew insolent through perpetual power, nor was anyone broken by long-lasting servitude, because the promotion was conferred without envy by the order of office and the moderation of time, and that arrangement seemed more tolerable which shared the lot of the guard. No one dared to oppress another with servitude, since the mutual irksomeness was to be undergone in honour of him who would succeed in his turn; hence the labour was not grievous, which a following dignity would relieve.
But after the lust of domination began to claim the powers once seized and to be unwilling to lay down those it had taken up, after the soldiery began to be not a common right but a servitude, after there came to be not an order for taking up power but an eagerness for it, then even the very discharge of labour began to be borne more harshly, and what is not voluntary quickly gives place to carelessness. How unwillingly do men undergo the duties of the watches, how grudgingly does each man, having drawn the lot of danger in the camp, keep watch over what is entrusted to him to guard by the royal command! A penalty for slackness is proposed: and yet for the most part carelessness creeps in, the watches are not kept. For necessity, which imposes obedience on the unwilling, for the most part brings on weariness;
for nothing is so easy but that it has difficulty, when you do it unwillingly. Therefore both continual labour turns away affection, and continuous and long-lasting power begets insolence. Whom of men would you find who would of his own accord lay down command and yield the insignia of his leadership, and willingly become last in rank from being first? But we contend often not only about the first place, but even about the middle, and we claim the first couches at the banquet, and, if once it has been conferred, we wish it to be perpetual. Therefore among the cranes there is equanimity in labours, humility in powers.
They are admonished to keep their turns at watch, but they are not admonished to withdraw from their post; for there the natural rest of sleep must be interrupted, while here a willing diligence must be offered out of grace. Storks, they say, set out in a gathered column when they think they must travel somewhere, and in most places about the East they journey together and are all moved alike, as though by a military password. You would think an army marches with its own standards: thus do they all keep the order of travelling, escorting, and going before. Crows lead them and direct them, and accompany them as a kind of bodyguard, so that they are believed to bring certain aids to the combatants against hostile birds and to take up the wars of others at their own peril.
The proof of this is that none of them are found to remain in those places after any interval of time, and that, returning with wounds, they declare by a certain plain voice of blood and by other signs that they have undergone the struggle of grave combats. Who, then, prescribed for them the penalty of desertion? Who laid down the dreadful punishments for abandoned warfare, so that not a single one tries to withdraw itself from the hospitable troops, but all in rivalry fulfil the duty and office of escort? Let men learn to keep the laws of hospitality, and let them learn from the birds what reverence is owed to guests, what services should be rendered—services which the crows are not wont to refuse even at their own peril.
Against these, then, we close our doors—to those to whom birds give even their own lives; and those whom the birds escort in fellowship of peril, we bar from the shelter of our roof; and against those whose wars the birds take up, we ourselves frequently make war. I am a liar, if this was not the cause of the Sodomites' punishment, or of the Egyptian frenzy—for, while attempting to make war upon a guest-people, that faithless multitude paid the penalties of its inhospitality by shipwreck. How greatly the clemency of this bird surpasses the piety and prudence even of rational beings ought to be considered—a clemency which not one of us, even after the example, could imitate.
For when the father has laid aside his limbs, stripped through the long span of old age of the covering of feathers and of the oarage of wings, the surrounding offspring warm him with their own plumage and—what shall I say?—feed him with gathered food, while they even repair the losses of his nature, so that, supporting the old one on this side and that with the prop of their wings, they exercise him for flight and recall to their former use the now disused members of their devoted father. Which of us would not be wearied to relieve a sick father? Let him lay the weary old man upon his own shoulders—a thing scarcely held credible in our own case. Who, that he might be dutiful, would not entrust this service to little slaves? But to the birds it is not burdensome that which is full of piety, nor heavy that debt of nature which is being paid.
The birds do not refuse to feed their father—a thing which very many men have refused even under prescribed obligation and the terror of penalties. The birds are bound not by a written law but by a law that is born in them; the birds are summoned to this office by no precepts, but by the duties of natural grace. The birds do not blush to bear the limbs of their reverend old one. For it is a carrying of piety, which by frequent testimony has so spread abroad that it has earned the reward of a fitting recompense; for in Roman usage it is called the dutiful bird, and what is said to have been granted scarcely to one emperor by decree of the senate, this these birds have merited in common. These birds, then, have decrees of the fathers to mark their own clemency; for it was fitting that dutiful sons should first be proclaimed by the judgment of the fathers.
They have also the suffrages of all; for the repayment of benefits is called antipelargosis (ἀντιπελάργωσις), since pelargos (πέλαργος) is the word for 'stork.' Thus virtue has received its name from these birds, since the requital of thanks is named with the word for 'stork.' We have, from the bird-offspring's care for their parents, an example of piety: let us now receive a great proof of maternal diligence toward children. The swallow, small in body but sublime in its remarkably devoted affection—which, though needy of all things, builds nests more precious than gold, because it builds wisely; for the nest of wisdom is better than gold. For what is wiser than that it should both enjoy the roving freedom of flight and entrust its little ones and its dwelling to the homes of men, where no one may assail its brood?
For this too is beautiful, that from their very first hatching it accustoms its chicks to the practice of human society and renders them safer from the snares of enemies. And then this is admirable, with what grace it constructs for itself a house, without any helper, as though skilled in the craft. For it gathers little straws with its mouth and smears them with mud, that it may glue them together. But because it cannot carry mud with its feet, it dips the tips of its wings in water, so that dust may easily cling to them and become mire, by which little by little it gathers together for itself the straws or tiny twigs and makes them cohere.
By this means it constructs the whole framework of the nest, so that, as on the floor of a pavement, its young may move about within their dwelling without stumbling, and no one may thrust a foot through the chinks of the weaving, nor the cold creep in upon the tender ones. But this work of industry is nearly common to many birds; that other thing, however, is singular, in which there is illustrious care of piety and the mark of a prudent understanding and of knowledge, and indeed a certain skill in the medical art: for if any of its chicks have been blinded by their eyes being pierced, or stung, it has a certain kind of healing by which their sight, its use being lost, can be restored. Let no one, then, complain of poverty because he has left his own house empty of money.
First is the swallow, which, void of money, abounds in industry; it builds and spends nothing, it raises a roof and takes nothing from a neighbor, nor is it compelled by want and poverty to harm another, nor does it despair amid the grievous weakness of its children. But we are both afflicted by poverty and harried by the necessity of need, and want drives most men into disgrace, impels them into crime; out of greed for gain too we turn our wit to frauds, we adapt our disposition, and amid the gravest sufferings we lay aside hope, and broken in spirit we lie prostrate before anyone, improvident and idle—whereas we ought to hope all the more in the divine compassion at the very time when human aids have failed.
Let men learn to love their children from the practice and piety of crows, which even in the variety of their offspring accompany them with diligent attendance, and, anxious lest the tender ones perchance fail, supply food and do not forsake the duties of nurturing for a long stretch of time. But women of a barking sort quickly wean even those whom they love, or, if they are wealthier, disdain to nurse them: poorer women cast out their little ones and expose them and disown them when found. The rich themselves too, lest their patrimony be divided among many, have their offspring taken away in the womb and, with parricidal potions, extinguish the pledges of their own womb in the very generative belly, and life is taken away before it is handed over. Who, save man, has taught that children should be disowned? Who devised such cruel rights of fathers?
Who, amid the brotherly fellowships of nature, has made brothers unequal? The sons of one rich man are cut off by diverse lot. One is flooded with the assignments of the whole paternal estate; another bewails the exhausted and needy portion of his father's opulent inheritance. Has nature divided the deserts of the children? The midwife brings it about equally for all that they may have the substance for being born and for living. Let nature herself teach you not to distinguish by patrimony those whom you have made equal by the title of brotherhood. For to those to whom you have given to be in common the fact that they are born, you ought not to grudge that they should have in common that estate into which they have been set by nature.
Hawks are said to display a harsh severity toward their own brood, in that, when they observe them attempting the first beginnings of flight, they cast them out of their nests and continually expel them, and, if they linger, drive them off with their wings and hurl them down, beat them with their pinions, and compel them to dare what they tremble at, nor do they afterward render to them any gift of nourishment. Yet what wonder is it, if those accustomed to plunder disdain to nourish? Let us consider that they were begotten for this, that even the birds might be schooled by fear into singing, lest they everywhere relax their cares, but might look out for dangers to be avoided from predators. Then, since by a certain nature the office of plundering has grown ingrained in them, they seem rather to be training their chicks from tenderness for the prey than to be disowning them to spare the costs of feeding.
They take care lest the chicks grow sluggish in tender age, lest they be unstrung by delights, lest they wither in idleness, lest they learn to await food rather than to seek it, lest they lay aside the vigor of their nature by occasion. They break off the efforts of nourishing, that they may compel them to dare the practice of plundering. The eagle too is much spoken of, in that it disowns its brood—yet not both, but one of two chicks. Some have thought this is done out of a loathing of doubling the food. But I do not think it readily to be believed, especially since Moses gave so great a testimony of piety toward its chicks to this bird, as to say: 'As an eagle protects its nest and broods over its young: it spreads out its wings and took them up and bore them upon its shoulders.'
'The Lord alone led them.' How then does it spread out its wings, if it kills one of them? Whence I think that it becomes harsh not from a greed of nourishing, but from a testing of judgment. For it is always said to test those it has begotten, lest the deformity of a degenerate offspring should discolor that royal eminence of its kind among all the birds. And so it is asserted that it exposes its chicks to the rays of the sun and holds the little ones suspended by its talon in mid-air. And if any, when the sun's light is reflected back, keeps the keen edge of its eyes undaunted with unshaken vigor of gazing, it is approved, because by the constancy of its untroubled gaze it has demonstrated the truth of its nature in its genuineness.
But the one which, having its eyes dazzled by the ray of the sun, is, as it were, degenerate and unworthy of so great a parent, is cast off, nor is it deemed worthy of rearing which was unworthy of acceptance. It condemns it, then, not by the bitterness of nature, but by the integrity of judgment, nor does it disown it as its own, but rejects it as alien. Yet this one, as is reported to some, the clemency of a plebeian bird excuses. For there is a bird whose name is 'coot,' which in Greek is called phēnē (φήνη), which takes up that eaglet—whether disowned, or not acknowledged—and joins it with its own offspring, and, mingling it with its own, feeds and nurtures it with the same office of maternal diligence and with an equal furnishing of nourishment as its own brood. Therefore the phēnē nourishes the offspring of others;
but we, with unfeeling cruelty, cast away our own. The eagle, if it casts off, does not cast off as its own, but does not recognize it as degenerate; we, what is worse, disown those whom we recognize as our own. But let us come to the turtledove, which the law of God chose as the offering of a chaste victim. Accordingly, when the Lord was circumcised, it was offered, because it is written in the law of the Lord that they should give a sacrifice of a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons. For this is the true sacrifice of Christ: bodily chastity and spiritual grace. Chastity is referred to the turtledove, grace to the dove.
For the turtledove is reported, when it has been widowed by the loss of its own mate, to be so weary of the marriage-bed and the name of wedlock that it endures rather to pass away by death, since its mate was both unfaithful with regard to permanence and bitter with regard to grace—a mate who begot more of grief by its death than of sweetness by its love. And so it refuses to repeat the union, nor does it dissolve the rights of chastity or the covenants of a husband once snatched away; to him alone it reserves its love, for him it keeps the name of wife. Learn, O women, how great is the grace of widowhood, which is proclaimed even among birds. Who, then, gave these laws to the turtledove? If I seek a man, I do not find one. For no man dared, since not even Paul dared to prescribe laws of widowhood to be kept. In short, the persecutor—
'I will therefore that the younger women marry, bear children, be mothers of families, give no occasion to the adversary'; and elsewhere: 'It is good for them if they so remain'; 'but if they cannot contain, let them marry, for it is better to marry than to burn.' Paul wishes in women what perseveres in turtledoves. And elsewhere he exhorts the younger ones to marry, because our women can scarcely fulfil the chastity of turtledoves. Therefore God infused this affection into turtledoves, gave them this virtue of continence—He who alone can prescribe what all may follow. The turtledove is not inflamed by the flower of youth, is not tempted by the enticement of opportunity; the turtledove knows not how to make void its first faith, because it knows how to preserve the chastity promised by the authority and lot of wedlock.
We have spoken of the widowhood of birds, and that this virtue first arose from them; now let us speak of integrity, which is asserted indeed to be present in very many birds, so that it can be detected even in vultures. For vultures are said not to indulge in coition or to be mingled by any conjugal practice and by the lot of nuptial coupling, and so to conceive without any seed of males and to generate without union, and that their young, sprung from these, advance to a great age in long life, so that the span of their life is prolonged even up to a hundred years, nor does the boundary of a narrow lifespan easily overtake them.
What do those say who are wont to laugh at our mysteries, when they hear that a virgin gave birth, and deem the childbirth of an unwed woman—whose modesty no intercourse of a man had violated—impossible? Is that judged impossible in the Mother of God which it is not denied that vultures can do? A bird gives birth without a male, and no one refutes it; and because Mary, betrothed, gave birth, they raise a question against her modesty. Do we not observe that the Lord, from nature itself, sent forth beforehand very many examples by which He might prove the beauty of the incarnation He took on and establish its truth? Now then let me set forth which birds seem to manage, as it were, a kind of commonwealth and to pass the time of this life under laws.
Hence there comes to mind the usage of a commonwealth: that the laws should be common to all and observed by a common devotion, that all be held by one bond, that there be no right belonging to one which another may understand to be unlawful for himself, but that what is lawful be lawful for all and what is not lawful be unlawful for all; that there be also a common reverence for the fathers, by whose counsel the commonwealth is governed; a common dwelling of the city for all, a common duty of social life; that one rule be prescribed for all, that there be one counsel. These things are great—but how much more excellent are they among the bees, which alone, in the whole kind of living creatures, have an offspring common to all, all inhabit one dwelling, all are enclosed within the threshold of one fatherland.
Common to all is the labor, common the food, common to all the work, common the use and enjoyment, common the flight—why say more?—common to all the generation; and you would find the integrity of a virginal body common to all, since they neither mingle among themselves in any coition nor are loosened by lust nor are shaken by the pains of childbirth, and suddenly they send forth a very great swarm of children, gathering their offspring with their mouth from leaves and herbs. They themselves appoint for themselves a king, they themselves create their peoples, and although they are placed under a king, yet they are free. For the king both holds his prerogative and the affection of faithful devotion, because they both love the king as coming from themselves and honor him with so great a swarm.
But the king is not led forth by lot, because in a lot there is chance, not judgment, and often, by the irrational fall of the lot, the very last is preferred to the better; nor is he marked out by the common clamor of an inexperienced multitude, which does not weigh the merits of virtue but ransacks for the profits of public advantage in its kings, and wavers in the uncertainty of fickleness; nor does he sit upon royal thrones by the privilege of succession and birth, since one ignorant of public conduct cannot be cautious and learned. Add the flatteries and the delights which, ingrained in tender ages, are wont to enervate even a keen disposition; then the schooling of eunuchs, of whom most incline the king's mind rather to their own gain than to the public use.
But for the bees the king is fashioned by nature with clear marks, so that he excels in size of body and in beauty, and then in that which is foremost in a king—in his character. For although he has a sting, yet he does not use it for vengeance. For there are laws of nature not written in letters but impressed upon manners, that those who are accustomed to the greatest power should be gentler in punishing. But even those bees which have not obeyed the king's laws fine themselves by penitent self-condemnation, so that they die upon the wound of their own sting. This the peoples of the Persians are said to observe even today, that for the price of an offense they themselves carry out upon themselves the sentence of their own death.
And so none reverence their king with so great a devotion of reverence—not the Persians, who have most grievous laws upon their subjects, not the Indians, not the peoples of the Sarmatians—as the bees, so that none dare go out from the hives, nor go forth to any pasture, unless the king has first gone out and claimed for himself the principate of the flight. And the procession is through fragrant fields, where gardens breathe with flowers, where the stream flees through the grass, where the pleasant places of the banks: there is the brisk sport of youth, there the field-exercise, there the relaxation of cares. The work itself is sweet. From the flowers, from the sweet herbs, the first foundations of the camp are laid. For what else is the honeycomb but a kind of likeness of a camp?
In short, from these stalls of the bees the drone is kept away. What four-square camp can have as much of art and grace as these wattled cells of fruits, in which the small and round little cells are mutually supported by one another? What architect taught them to compose hexagons with an indistinguishable equality of the sides of the cells, and to hang slender waxes between the partitions of the houses, to pack the honey, and to distend the granaries interwoven with flowers with a certain nectar?
You may behold them all contending over their duty: some keep watch in seeking food, some apply anxious guard, some explore the coming rains and watch for the gathering of the clouds, some shape waxes from the flowers, some gather with their mouth the dew poured upon the flowers—yet none lies in wait for the labors of others or seeks its livelihood by plunder. And would that they did not fear the snares of plunderers! Yet they have their stings and pour forth poison amid the honey, if they are provoked, and lay down their lives in the wound in the ardor of vengeance. So in the midst of the camp's hollows that moisture of dew is poured in and little by little, in the progress of time, is forced into honey, when it has been liquid from the beginning, and by the coalescing of the wax and the scent of the flowers it begins to breathe forth the sweetness of honey.
Deservedly does Scripture proclaim the bee as a good worker, saying: 'Go to the bee and see how she is a worker'; and it earns also a work as venerable as it is, whose labor both kings and ordinary men take for their health; for it is desirable to all and renowned. Do you hear what the prophet says? He indeed sends you to follow the example of that little bee, to imitate its work. You see how laborious, how pleasing it is. Its fruit is desired and sought by all, nor is it distinguished according to the diversity of persons, but with its undiscriminating grace it grows sweet with equal sweetness for kings and for ordinary men alike. And it serves not only for pleasure but also for health. It sweetens the throat and heals wounds, and it pours its medicine also into inward ulcers.
And so, although the bee is weak in strength, it is strong in the vigor of wisdom and in love of virtue. In short, they defend their king with the highest protection and think it beautiful to perish for him. While the king is safe, they know not how to change their resolve; when he is lost, they abandon their precious purpose and the now superfluous faithfulness of their office, and they themselves plunder the honey they had gathered, because he who held the principate of the office has been slain. And so, whereas other birds scarcely produce single offspring in a year, the bees create twins and outweigh the rest with a double fecundity. Let us now consider what it means that He said: 'Let the waters bring forth reptiles of living souls and flying things that fly above the earth according to their kind and beneath the firmament of heaven.'
Why He said 'above the earth' is certain, because they take their food from the earth, the image; but in what way 'beneath the firmament of heaven,' since eagles fly beyond the other birds and yet not even they fly beneath the firmament of heaven? But because in Greek it is called ouranos (οὐρανός), which in Latin we call 'heaven,' and ouranos is invisible, from tou horasthai (τοῦ ὁρᾶσθαι), that is, from 'seeing'—therefore, because the air is transparent and purer for seeing, He called the kinds of living creatures that flit in the air. Nor let it disturb you that He said 'beneath the firmament of heaven.' He did not here use 'firmament' properly, but improperly, in that, by comparison with that aethereal body, even this air, which we can comprehend with our eyes, being as it were thick and denser, holds the place of a firmament.
祂為何說『在地面以上』乃是確定的,因為牠們從地——那形像——取食物;但祂如何說『在天空之下』呢,既然鷹飛得比其他鳥更高,然而連牠們也並非飛在天空之下?但因希臘文稱之為 ouranos(οὐρανός),就是我們拉丁文所稱的「天」,而 ouranos 是不可見的,源自 tou horasthai(τοῦ ὁρᾶσθαι),即源自「看見」——因此,由於空氣是透明的、更便於觀看,祂就稱那些在空中飛掠的活物之類。也不要因祂說『在天空之下』而困惑。祂在此用「天空」並非按本義,乃是借用,因為與那以太之體相比,連這我們肉眼所能領會的空氣,因彷彿厚重而較稠密,便佔了天空的地位。
Now, since we have said which are the flying creatures, what nature or grace they have—and these few out of many, for there is no leisure to describe them all, since they are similar and of the same invisible kind—nevertheless let us consider what diversity the birds themselves have among one another. For we find the feet of the crow as it were separated and divided by certain distant toes; the feet of the raven too and of chickens otherwise formed by nature; the feet of birds that feed on flesh as it were curved, and that, prepared as it were for prey. Those more graceful, which have the use and habit of swimming, have broad feet and those toes of the feet coupled and joined to one another by a certain membrane.
In this the admirable reason of nature is evident, so that those birds may be supported with a usage suited to flying or to seizing food, and these may have aids fitted for swimming, whereby they may better float upon the waters and, as if by certain oars, may rule the streams of the waters with their feet made broader by the extension of that membrane. The swan, too—why it uses a longer neck is plain: because, since it is a little sluggish in body and cannot easily penetrate the lower parts of the waters, it stretches out its neck for prey, so that, going before as it were ahead of the rest of the body, it may snatch the food it has found and dig it up from the deep. Add this, that a sweeter and more melodious strain is distinguished through its long neck and, by longer exercise, resounds far purer.
How sweet too is the song in the tiny throat of the cicadas, by whose songs the groves are split in the midst of the heat, in that they are more melodious in the noonday heats, because at that time they draw in a purer air with their breath, the clearer do their songs resound. Nor do the bees themselves sing anything unpleasant; for they have a pleasing sweetness in that hoarse murmur of their voice, which we ourselves seem at first to have imitated rather sluggishly with the broken sound of trumpets—by which din nothing is reckoned more apt for rousing spirits into vigor. And this grace remains to them, though most of them are reported to have no lung nor function and use of breathing at all, but to feed on the airy breath.
In short, if anyone pours oil over them, they are quickly killed, because, their pores being obstructed, they cannot draw in that airy breath; and immediately, if anyone pours vinegar over them, they recover, because the force of the vinegar, by its moisture, quickly opens those pores which were obstructed by the clotting of the oil. And since we are speaking of flying creatures, we do not think it foreign to embrace those things which history relates concerning the Indian worm, or the account of those who were able to see it. This horned worm is reported first to be converted into the appearance of a cabbage-stalk and to be changed into the same nature, then by a certain progress to become a 'bombylius.' Nor yet does it keep that form and figure, but with loose and broader leaves it seems to assume wings.
From these leaves the Seres comb out that soft fleece, which the rich have claimed for their own uses. Whence the Lord also says: 'What went ye out into the desert to see? A man clothed in soft garments? Behold, they that wear soft things are in the houses of kings.' The chameleon too is said to counterfeit diverse appearances with its varying color. Hares certainly—as we have easily learned at close hand—it is not doubted grow white in winter and return to their own color afterward in summer. These things I have but tasted, that these examples too may provoke us to the faith of that transformation which is to come in the resurrection—yet so that we declare that transformation which the Apostle clearly expressed, saying: 'We shall all indeed rise again, but we shall not all be changed.' And further on he says:
'And the dead shall rise incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.' For very many, interpreting a kind and forms of transformation which they have not received, have by no means been free from the unfitting usurpation of an undue presumption. The Phoenix too, a bird, is said to dwell in the regions of Arabia and to prolong its long-lived age up to five hundred years. When it perceives that the end of its life is at hand, it makes for itself a casket of frankincense and myrrh and other spices, into which, its life's span being fulfilled, it enters and dies.
From the moisture of its flesh a worm arises and little by little grows up, and in the course of an appointed time puts on the oarage of wings and is restored into the form and figure of the bird above. Let this bird, then, teach by its own example to believe in the resurrection—it which, without example and without the perception of reason, of itself renews for itself the tokens of resurrection. And surely the birds are for the sake of man, not man for the sake of the bird. Let it be for us, then, an example that the Author and Creator of birds does not suffer His saints to perish forever—He who, not suffering a single bird to perish, willed it, rising again, to be propagated by its own seed.
Who, then, announces to this bird the day of its death, that it should make for itself a casket and fill it with good odors and enter into it and die there, where by the pleasing odors the stench of the funeral can be abolished? Do you also, O man, make for yourself a casket: putting off the old man with his deeds, put on the new. Your casket, your sheath, is Christ, who protects you and hides you in the evil day. Do you wish to know that He is a sheath of protection? 'In my quiver,' He says, 'I have protected him.' Your casket, then, is faith; fill it with the good odors of your virtues, that is, of chastity, mercy, and justice, and enter wholly into the very inner sanctuaries of faith, fragrant with the sweet odor of excellent deeds.
Let the close of this life find you clothed with that faith, so that your bones may be made fat and may be like a watered garden, whose green things are quickly awakened. Know, then, the day of your death, as Paul also knew it, who says: 'I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. There is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.' He therefore entered into his casket like a good phoenix, which he filled with the good odor of martyrdom.
I will question you, and do you answer me: whence have the vultures grown accustomed to announce by certain signs the death of men, by what indication they are taught and instructed, so that, when opposing battle-lines draw up a lamentable war among themselves, the foretelling birds follow in a great column and thereby signify that a multitude of men is destined to fall in war, the future prey of the vultures? This indeed they seem to gather by some reasoning from the appearance of human marshalling. The divine grace has penetrated even to the locust, which, when with a packed column it has occupied the breadth of any region, first spares the unharmed dwelling and does not devour the fruits with inhospitable incursion, unless it has received the sign of the divine command.
For just as we read in Exodus, so too does this creature carry out the heavenly retribution for the offense given, as the dutiful servant of a righteous vengeance. The bird called the seleucis devours it — for by this Greek name the bird is named — being given as a remedy against the evils which the locust is wont to bring. To this bird the Creator gave an insatiable nature for devouring, so that by its unsatisfiable feeding it might wipe out the plague of which we spoke above. But what is this? While we draw out our discourse, behold, already the birds of the night are flying around you, and at that very moment in which they admonish that the sermon must be ended, they also prompt that mention should be made of themselves.
The various birds, which the evening compels to withdraw before the night, seek again their roosts and hide themselves in their lurking-places, accompanying the setting of the day with melodious song, lest creation should depart unmindful of the thanksgivings by which every creature praises its Creator together. The night too has its own songs, by which it is wont to soothe the watches of men; the owl too has its calls. But what shall I say of the nightingale, who, an ever-wakeful guardian, when she warms her eggs in a certain fold and bosom of her body, beguiles the sleepless toil of the long night with the sweetness of her singing, so that it seems to me that this is her chief intention: that she may quicken the eggs she warms no less by sweeter melodies than by the warmth of her body?
Imitating her, that poor but chaste woman, drawing along with her arm the chiseled stone of the mill, that bread might not be lacking as nourishment for her little ones, soothes with nocturnal song the sorrowful feeling of her poverty; and although she cannot imitate the sweetness of the nightingale, yet she imitates her in the diligence of her devotion. The owl itself, how with the great and grey pupils of its eyes it does not feel the dread of the dark gloom of night, and the more obscure the night has been, so much the more, contrary to the habit of all other birds, it carries on its flights unhindered; but when day has arisen and the splendor of the sun is poured around, its sight is dulled, as though it were straying amid a kind of darkness.
By which sign it declares that there are some who, though they have eyes to see, are not wont to see, and who use the office of their sight in the darkness. I speak of the eyes of the heart, which the wise of this world possess and yet do not see; in the light they discern nothing, in the darkness they walk, while they pry into the shadowy things of demons and believe that they see the heights of heaven, mapping out the world with a measuring-rod, computing the very measure of the air; but moreover, having strayed from the faith, they are entangled in the darkness of perpetual blindness, having close at hand the day of Christ and the light of the Church, and yet seeing nothing they open their mouth as though knowing all things — sharp toward vanities, dull toward eternal things, and by the winding maze of long disputation betraying the blindness of their own knowledge.
And so, while they desire to flit about with subtle discourses, they vanish in the light like owls. The bat, an ignoble animal, takes its name from the evening. It is also a flying creature, and yet at the same time a quadruped, and uses teeth such as you would not commonly find in other birds. It does not bring forth eggs, as the quadrupeds do, but living young. It flits about in the air after the manner of birds, but it is wont to be enveloped at the dusk of evening. It flies, however, not by any feathers, but supported by the oarage of its own membrane, by which, suspended, it is carried about and given motion as though by the flight of wings. This base creature also has this trait, that they cling to one another in turn and hang as in the likeness of a cluster of grapes from some place, and, if the very last of them lets go, they are all loosened.
This happens by a certain gift of charity, which is found with difficulty among the men of this world. There is also the crowing of the cock, sweet in the night — not only sweet, but also useful — which, like a good housemate, both rouses the sleeper and admonishes the anxious and consoles the traveler, attesting by its tuneful signal the progress of the night.
At its crowing the robber leaves off his ambushes; at it the morning-star itself, aroused, rises and lights up the sky; at its crowing the trembling sailor lays aside his sadness, and every storm and tempest, again and again stirred up by the evening blasts, grows gentle; at its crowing the devout affection leaps up to prayer and renews also the duty of reading; at its crowing, finally, the very rock of the Church washes away its fault, which by denying it had contracted before the cock had crowed. At its song hope returns to all, the discomfort of the sick is relieved, the pain of wounds is lessened, the burning of fevers is soothed, faith returns to the fallen, Jesus looks upon the wavering, corrects the erring. At last He looked upon Peter, and at once the error departed, the denial was driven out, confession followed.
That this did not happen by chance, but by the Lord's sentence, the Scripture reading teaches. For thus it is written, that Jesus said to Simon: The cock shall not crow before thou hast thrice denied me. Rightly is Peter strong in the day, by night he is troubled, and before the cock-crow he falls — and he falls a third time, that you may know he slipped not by an ill-considered pouring-out of speech, but was troubled also by a wavering of mind. Yet that same man becomes stronger after the cock-crow, and not unworthy that Christ should look upon him; for the eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous. He recognized that the remedy had come, after which he could now no longer err, and, changed from error into virtue, he wept most bitterly, that with his tears he might wash away his error. Look also upon us, Lord Jesus, that we too may recognize our own faults.
Let us loose our fault with pious weeping, let us merit the pardon of our sins. Therefore I deliberately drew out my discourse, that for us also the cock might crow and come to our aid as we speak, so that if any fault should creep in by way of a word, Thou, O Christ, mightest forgive the fault. Grant, I pray, the tears of Peter; I do not want the gladness of the sinner. The Hebrews wept, and through the sea, as the waves parted, they were set free. Pharaoh rejoiced that he held the Hebrews shut in, and, plunged into the sea with his people, he perished. Judas also exulted at the wage of his betrayal, but he strangled himself with the noose of that very wage. Peter wept over his error and merited that he should blot out the errors of others.
But now it is the time at which we ought to end and close our discourse — it is the time at which silence is better, or the discourse has spent itself; it is the time at which pardon is celebrated. For us too let this mystical cock sing in the holy rites, since the cock of Peter has crowed in our discourse. Let Peter weep for us, who wept well for himself, and let him turn the merciful face of Christ toward us. Let the Passion of the Lord Jesus draw near, which daily forgives our sins and works the gift of remission. The good Lord does not wish to send away the fasting, lest any faint on the way. If He says:
I have compassion on this multitude, because they have continued with me three days now and have nothing to eat, and I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint on the way — He whose preparation Mary, intent upon His word, refused as to the furnishings of a banquet: how much more ought we to consider that not many are they who live in the word of God, and therefore the refreshment of the body is the more desired. Surely this our day after is more laborious than that three days' span. And therefore we who have sported with the birds, who have crowed with the cock, let us now sing the mysteries of the Lord, and let the eagles of sinners, renewed by the washing, come together to the body of Jesus; for now that great whale has given us back the true Jonah, and let us rejoice that evening has come for us, and let it become morning, the sixth day. THE SIXTH DAY.
This is the sixth day, on which the origin of the world's creation is brought to a close, and therefore also the end of our discourse — which we undertook with greater difficulty at the beginnings of things — is being prepared. And although it has gone forward for us through five days now with no slight labor, yet on this present day it grows with the greater interest of cares, because in this day there is both the peril of the previous days and the sum of the whole contest.
For indeed, if in the playing of lyres or in songs and in the frequent contests of athletes — and these often very great spectacles — the earlier days nonetheless pass without any loss of the crown, while the last day holds the lot of the crown, on which there is both the peril of deciding and the disgrace of yielding and the prize of winning: how much more, in this so great contest of wisdom, in which we are engaged on behalf not of a few but of all, since today a kind of crown of the struggle goes forth for us, does a greater anxiety wring us, lest we both pour away the labor of the previous days and undergo the shame of the present one. For the condition of speaking is not the same as that of singing and wrestling, since in those the loss is one of mere stumbling, but in this it is a falling unto death.
There, if you err, it is the disdain of the spectators; the coldness of the listeners is the loss. Stand by me therefore as judges of the crown, and enter with me into this great and admirable theater of the whole visible creation. For indeed, if he who acts as guide makes sport of the arrival of guests, while he leads them around the whole circuit of the city, pointing out each of the more excellent works, places no slight obligation of gratitude — how much more ought you without disdain to receive that, by which, as though by a certain hand of discourse, through this fellowship I lead you around in our homeland, and point out the appearances and kinds of the several things, desiring to gather from them all how much more abundant a grace the Creator of all bestows upon you than upon the universe.
To you therefore this crown is set forth; you today I desire to crown by your own judgment. For we do not demand the withering garlands after the manner of athletes, but the green and living verdict of your holiness, by which you may decide that divine providence indeed penetrates through all creatures, but that with the rest you have in common the fellowship of bodily frailty, yet that before the rest you stand fast by the virtue of the soul, which alone has nothing in common with the rest. Now come, let us speak of the natures of the beasts and of the generation of man. For I have long since heard some whispering and saying: How long do we learn the things of others and not know our own? How long are we taught knowledge concerning the rest of living creatures and are ignorant of our very selves? Let him speak that which may profit me, that I may know myself.
And the complaint is just, but order must be kept, the order which He wove together so that it should be gathered up; and also because we cannot more fully know ourselves unless we have first come to know what is the nature of all living creatures. Let the earth, He says, bring forth the living soul according to its kind, four-footed things and creeping things and beasts of the earth, and cattle according to their kind, and all creeping things according to their kind. And God made the beasts of the earth and all the cattle according to their kind and all the creeping things of the earth according to their kind. And God saw that they were good, and God said: Let us make man. In this place I am not unaware that some have referred the kinds of beasts and of cattle and of creeping things of the earth to this, that they might refer these to the enormities of crimes, the folly of sins, the wickedness of thoughts:
But I for my part take the simple natures of each kind. Nor do I fear that anyone should think me to be compared to the presumption of a poor host, who in his zeal for kindness invites many, yet sets before them nothing but cheap and common foods, so that by the scanty furnishing of the poor man's table he incurs more reproach from the disdain of the guests than he earns thanks from the addition of hospitality; for not even the friends rejected Elisha as a bad host when he set before them rustic herbs.
Like to vain accounts is that choice and carefully sumptuous banquet, in which the appearance of a pheasant or a turtledove is set out, and within a chicken is eaten; or a young bird is brought in and is stuffed with oysters or with mussels; or a cup is drunk which, by its varied color and odor, is changed into alien flavors — things of the sea joined to things of the land, things of the land to things of the sea alike. This is to reproach the Creator's design, who granted us all things for nourishment, in that He did not mix those things together. But these things seem sweet at first and afterward become bitter; for the more abundant the luxury has been, so much the more pernicious is the intemperance. Elisha, however, set out bitter things, but afterward they were made sweet.
In short, those who before supposed death to be in that food afterward obtained in it the grace of sweetness and of life. Nor again is there cause for fear, lest I should seem to have invited more than I can feed, and the loaves of my words should fail you; for Elisha also — though in merit inimitable, yet to be imitated by us in faith — did not consider how many loaves he had, but willed to divide among all those which he had, and judged them sufficient for all. And so he commanded his servant to divide ten barley loaves among the people. And the servant said: What shall I set this before a hundred men? And he answered: Give, and let them eat, for thus says the Lord: They shall eat and shall leave over. Your faith, therefore, will make the banquet of the poor man's tongue to abound.
Nor do I fear lest the fasts make you more voracious, so that you should return filled yet hungering and empty, because it is written: The Lord confirms the righteous, and in the days of famine they shall be satisfied. It is far more beautiful not to blush at barley loaves and to set out what you have than to refuse. Elisha, who kept nothing for himself, had abundance for the peoples. Elisha therefore did not blush to set out barley loaves: we blush to understand simple things plainly, things which are declared by their simple and proper names. We read 'heaven' — let us accept heaven; we read 'earth' — let us understand fruitful earth. Why should I seek out what is the measure of its circuit, which the geometers have reckoned at a hundred and eighty thousand stadia?
I gladly confess that I do not know what I do not know — nay rather, that I do know what it will profit nothing to know. It is better to know the kinds of lands than their extents, which — surrounded by the sea, with barbarous regions lying between, soaked and rendered impassable by marshy soil — how can we comprehend? That this is impossible for men, the Scripture shows, since God says: Who has measured the water with his hand, and the heaven with his palm, and the whole earth in his closed fist? Who has set the mountains in a balance and the rocks in a scale and the groves in a yoke? And below: He who holds the circle of the earth, and its inhabitants like locusts, who has set the heaven as a vault.
Who therefore dares to claim for himself a knowledge equal to God's, so that what God has marked out by the very oracle of His majesty to be His own, a man should presume to be within his reach for knowing? Surely Moses was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, but because he received the Spirit of God, as a minister of God he set that empty and usurped teaching of philosophy after the reasoning of the truth, and described for me those things which he judged suited to our hope: that God made the earth, that the earth brought forth, according to the command of God the Almighty and the operation of the Lord Jesus, shrubs from the lands and every living soul according to its kind.
But he did not think it ought to be said how much of the space of the air the shadow of the earth occupies when the sun recedes from us and draws away the day, lighting the lower parts of the axis; nor in what way the globe of the moon, falling into this region of the world, causes an eclipse — since he passed over things which, being nothing to us, would profit us as good as nothing. For he saw in the Holy Spirit that those vanities of a now-withering wisdom are not to be pursued, which occupy our mind with inexplicable matters and mock our effort, but rather that those things are to be described which would look toward the advancement of virtue. Let us therefore cleave to the prophetic sayings, and let us not hold the discourses of the Holy Spirit as cheap and worthy of contempt. Let the earth, He says, bring forth the living soul of cattle and of beasts and of creeping things.
Why do we argue other things, where the nature of earthly creatures is evidently formed? For the Word of God runs in the depths of the world through every creature, so that suddenly out of the hollow all the kinds of living things which God appointed are brought forth, and by a law prescribed for the future they all succeed one another according to their kind and likeness, so that a lion begets a lion, a tiger a tiger, an ox an ox, a swan a swan, an eagle an eagle. Once commanded, it grew ingrained in nature forever, and therefore the earth does not cease to render the obedience of its service, so that, the species being restored by the ordinance of antiquity, new ages may be renewed by succession. But do you wish to direct to the use of man the things which have been begotten?
Do not deny to each kind the truth proper to its own nature, and you will far rather fit them to human grace — first, because nature has prostrated all the kinds of cattle, beasts and fish, so that some crawl upon the belly, others which are supported on feet you may see to be sunk down rather by the four-footed gait of the body and as though fixed to the earth than free; since, having no faculty of raising themselves up, they seek their food from the earth and follow only the pleasures of the belly, toward which they are bent down. Beware, O man, of being bowed down after the manner of cattle; beware lest you bend yourself toward the belly not so much by body as by desire. Look upon the form of your body and take up the appearance befitting your lofty vigor; let only the animals graze prone.
Why do you make yourself rich in eating, you whom nature has not prostrated? Why do you take delight in that in which there is an injury to nature? Why, night and day intent upon food, do you feed on earthly things after the manner of cattle? Why, given over to bodily allurements, do you dishonor your very self, while you are a slave to the belly and to its passions? Why do you take away from yourself the understanding which the Creator bestowed upon you? Why do you liken yourself to the beasts of burden, from which God willed to set you apart, saying: Be not made like the horse and the mule, in which there is no understanding? Or if the voracity of the horse delights you in your intemperance, and to neigh after females is your pleasure, may it delight you to have your jaws shaped and constrained with the bridle.
If cruelty feeds you — this is the madness of wild beasts, which are slaughtered because of their savagery — see lest the monstrousness of your own cruelty turn also upon you. The sluggish ass, exposed to plunder and duller in sense, what else does it teach but that we ought to be more lively, and not grow sluggish through laziness of body and mind, but flee to faith, which is wont to lighten heavy burdens? The fraudulent fox, plunging itself into pits and lurking-places, is it not a sign that it is an unprofitable animal and worthy of hatred for its rapine, contemptible for its weakness, and therefore heedless of its own safety while it lies in wait for what belongs to others?
He formed the partridge, which plunders the eggs of another — that is, of another partridge — and warms them with its own body, but cannot have the fruit of its fraud; because, when it has hatched out its young, it loses them: for when they have heard the voice of the one that laid the eggs, leaving the other they betake themselves to her by a certain natural office and love, recognizing her as their true mother by the bearing of the eggs, signifying that this one fulfills the office of a nurse, that one of a parent. And so it pours out its own labors in vain and is mulcted of the price of its fraud. Whence Jeremiah also says:
The partridge cried out and gathered together what it did not bring forth — that is, it gathered the eggs and cried out as though exulting in the effect of its fraud, but it wastes its effort, because with great labor expended it rears for another those young which, by the warming of its long-continued diligence, we should think its own. An imitator of this is the devil, who strives to snatch away the generations of the eternal Creator; and if he has been able to gather any who are foolish and lacking the vigor of their own sense, cherishing them with bodily allurements — as soon as the voice of Christ has been poured into the little ones, they depart and betake themselves to that mother who embraces her young like a bird with maternal love. For the devil gathered the Gentiles, whom he had not created;
but as soon as they came to know the voice which He sent forth in His Gospel, they betook themselves preeminently to Him who received them under the shadow of His wings and gave them to the Church their mother to be nurtured. The lion, proud in the ferocity of its nature, knows not how to mingle itself with the kinds of other wild beasts, but, like a certain king, disdains the fellowship of the many. It even scorns yesterday's food, and turns away even from the very remains of its own meal. And what wild beast would dare to associate itself with it, in whose voice there is naturally so great a terror that many of the living creatures which by their swiftness could escape its onset, at the sound of its roaring, as though struck by a certain force, we believe fail and grow faint?
For neither did the Scripture keep silent about the appearance of the leopard, that by the variety of its color it betrays the varied movements of its soul. For Jeremiah says: If the Ethiopian shall change his skin, and the leopard his spots. For this is taken not only of its figure, but also of the mobility of its fury, in that, by the dark and restless and shifting changes of a faithless mind and spirit, like the wind, the people of the Jews can no longer keep the grace of a good purpose, nor return to any amendment and correction, having once put on the wild beast's monstrousness.
Yet there is also in the nature of quadrupeds something to which the prophetic discourse exhorts us to imitate, that by its example we may beware of sloth and may not be turned back from the pursuit of virtue by the smallness or weakness of our body, nor recalled from the greatness of that purpose. For tiny is the ant, which dares things greater than its own strength, and is not compelled to its work by servitude, but by a purpose of spontaneous foresight it builds up beforehand for itself the future supplies of food. That you may imitate its industry, the Scripture admonishes you, saying: Betake yourself to the ant, O sluggard, and imitate its ways and be wiser than it. For it possesses no tillage:
having neither one to compel it nor acting under a master, how does it prepare its food, which lays up for itself a harvest from your labors! And while you for the most part are in want, it lacks nothing. No granaries are closed to it, no impenetrable strongholds, no inviolable heaps. The guardian watches and dares not forbid the thefts; the owner beholds his own losses and does not avenge them. The plunder is carried along in a black column through the fields, the paths swarm with the company of travelers, and the great grains which cannot be grasped with their narrow mouths are pushed along upon their shoulders. The lord of the harvest beholds these things and blushes to refuse such scanty gains to a dutiful industry.
But what shall I say of dogs, in whom it is implanted by a certain nature to render thanks and to maintain anxious watches for the safety of their masters? Whence to those unmindful of a benefit, and slothful and lazy, the Scripture cries out: Dumb dogs, not knowing how to bark. They are dogs, then, who know how to bark for their masters, who know how to defend their own dwellings. Whence do you also learn to exercise your voice for Christ, when grievous wolves assail the sheepfold of Christ; learn to keep the word in your mouth, lest, like a dumb dog, you should seem to have deserted by a certain silence of prevarication the guardianship of the faith committed to you.
Such a dog was a traveler and companion of the angel, whom Raphael in the prophetic book thought not idly to be joined to himself and to Tobias the son, when he set out, in order that he might put Asmodeus to flight and confirm the marriage-bond; for through the dutiful service the demon is driven out, the marriage is established. And so under the appearance of a dumb beast the holy angel Raphael trained the disposition of the youth Tobias, whom he had received to protect, toward the rendering of gratitude. For who would not blush not to render thanks to those who deserve well of him, when he sees even the beasts shun the crime of ingratitude? Even those keep the memory of the nourishment imparted to them; and do you not keep the memory of the safety you have received?
The she-bear, though she lies in wait — for she is a beast full of fraud, as the Scripture says — yet is reported to bring forth shapeless offspring from the womb, but to shape the young with her tongue and to form them into her own appearance and likeness. Do you not marvel, in a wild beast, at such offices of a loving mouth, whose tenderness expresses nature? The she-bear, then, fashions her offspring to her own likeness; can you not instruct your sons to be like yourself? And what of this, that she did not pass over the industry of healing either? Since, when grievously afflicted by slaughter and wounded all over, she knows how to heal herself with an herb whose name is 'phlomos,' as the Greeks call it, placing it upon her ulcers, so that they are cured by the mere touch. The serpent too, by feeding on fennel, drives off the blindness it has contracted.
And so, when it has perceived its eyes being clouded over, it seeks the remedies it knows and is not cheated of the effect. The tortoise, having fed its inward parts on the serpent, when it has noticed the poison creeping over it, employs marjoram as the medicine of its own safety; and although it is plunged in the muddy marsh-pools, it knows nevertheless how to cure itself with its own antidote, and by a sure aid of health it proves that it too knows the powers of herbs. You may also see the fox healing itself with the little tear of the pine, and by such a remedy putting off the span of impending death. The Lord Himself cries out in the book of Jeremiah: The turtledove and the swallow, the sparrows of the field, have kept the times of their coming in; but my people has not known the judgments of the Lord.
The swallow knows when it should come, and when also it should return; the pious bird knows even to announce, by the testimony of its arrival, the sign of spring. The ant too knows how to scout out the times of fair weather; for when it has noticed its fruits, wetted by rain, growing damp, having more diligently scouted out the air for when it can keep a steady mildness, it unbars its heaps and carries them out of its caverns upon its own shoulders, so that its own grains may be dried by the steady sun. In short, by no means on all those days are the locks of its hair, when by the blasts it has recalled its store to a more precious and unspeakable hollow. The oxen, when rain is impending, know to keep themselves at their stalls.
The same oxen, when by their natural sense they have gathered a change of the sky, look outward and stretch their necks beyond their stalls, all with one appearance, as if to testify that they wish to go forth. The sheep, at the coming of winter, insatiably snatches the herbage as food without being satisfied, because it has a presentiment that, through the harshness of winter, it will be lacking; so that it may stuff itself beforehand with the fodder of the grass before all the herbage fails through the searing frost. That earthly hedgehog, which is commonly called the urchin, if it has had any presentiment of snares, shuts itself up in its spines and gathers itself into its own armor, so that whoever has thought to touch it may be wounded.
And the same hedgehog, foreseeing the future, fortifies for itself two passages for breathing, so that when it has come to know that the north wind is about to blow, it may block up the northern one, and when it has come to know that the clouds of the air are being wiped away by the south wind, it may betake itself to the northern one, so that it may avoid the blasts that meet it head-on and would harm it from that quarter. Whence the prophet rendered worthy praise to the Lord, saying: How magnified are your works, O Lord! In wisdom you have made all things. The divine wisdom penetrates all things, fills all things; and this is more richly gathered from the senses of irrational creatures than from the disputation of rational ones; for the testimony of nature is stronger than the argument of doctrine.
To what living creature is it unknown how to preserve its own safety—if it has strength, by resisting; if it has speed, by fleeing; if it has cunning, by taking precaution? Who taught these creatures the practice of healing and the knowledge of herbs? We are human beings, and we are often deceived by the appearance of herbs, and frequently we find that those we think wholesome are harmful. How often has deadly food crept in amid sweet banquets, and amid the very watches of courtiers a fatal morsel has reached the vitals of kings through their attendants! Wild beasts know by smell alone how to distinguish the harmful from the beneficial; with no one going before, with no one tasting first, the herb is plucked and does no harm—for nature is a better teacher of truth.
This nature, without any instructor, instills into our senses the knowing pleasantness of health, and likewise teaches that the bitterness of pain is to be shunned. Hence life is sweeter, hence death more bitter. This nature commends to the lioness her own cubs, and softens the savage beast with a mother's affection. This nature checks the ferocity of the tigress and turns her back when she is bent upon her prey. For when she finds the lair of her stolen offspring empty, she at once presses upon the tracks of the ravisher. But he, though carried on a swift horse, yet seeing that he can be overtaken by the beast's speed and that no means of escape avails him, contrives a stratagem by this trick: when he sees himself about to be caught, he throws down a sphere of glass; and then she is deceived by her own image and thinks it her young.
She checks her onrush, longing to gather up her young. Again, held back by the empty appearance, she flings herself with all her strength to seize the rider, and, swifter through the goad of anger, presses upon the fugitive. Once more he, by casting down a sphere, slows his pursuer; yet the memory of the deception does not banish the mother's zeal. She turns over the empty image and, as though about to suckle her young, settles down upon it. Thus, deceived by the devotion of her own love, she loses both her vengeance and her offspring. This is what Scripture brings before us, which says: 'Children, love your fathers; parents, do not provoke your children to anger.' Nature has instilled this into the beasts, that they love their own cubs and cherish their young.
They know nothing of a stepmother's hatreds, nor, when the mating is changed, are the parents corrupted against their offspring, nor do they know how to prefer the children of a later union while neglecting those of an earlier one. They recognize their own pledges of love; they know nothing of distinctions in affection, of the incitements of hatred, of the dividing-lines of offence. The wild beasts have their own nature; it knows nothing of the calumnies of truth. For thus the Lord has so tempered all things, that to those to whom He gave less of reason He granted the more of affection. What wild beast does not, for its own cubs, offer its very self to death above all? What wild beast, though hemmed in by countless wedges of armed men, does not shelter its young in its own body? Though a harvest of weapons should press upon it, it keeps its little ones, fenced about by the wall of its body, free from danger.
What does man say, who neglects the commandment and blots out nature? The son despises his father, the father disowns his son—and they think this to be a right, where fruitfulness is condemned. Rather the father condemns himself, who makes void what he has begotten; and this is thought to belong to authority, where nature is punished with sterility. No one would doubt that the dog is a creature devoid of reason; yet if you consider the vigor of its perception, you would judge that by its keenness of sense it lays claim to a force of reasoning. In short, what a few men, set in their orbit, who have worn away the whole long span of their life in study, have scarcely been able to learn—namely, how to weave together the connections of syllogisms—this it may easily be reckoned that a dog can grasp through its natural training.
For when by day it has found the track of a hare and comes to a fork in the path, and a certain crossing of ways which splits into very many parts, going round the beginnings of the several paths, it ponders silently within itself, as it were sending forth by day a voice through the keenness of gathering the scent: 'Either,' it says, 'it has turned aside in this direction or in that, or surely it has betaken itself into this bend; but it has entered neither this road nor that. It remains, then, that it has betaken itself without doubt into this part.' What men scarcely put together by a long meditation of composed art, this is available to dogs from nature—namely, that they first detect the falsehood and then, the falsity rejected, find the truth.
Do not philosophers wear away whole days dividing their propositions in the dust, drawing each one with a rod, and out of three—when one of them must be true—first kill off two as agreeing with falsehood, and so determine that the force of truth cleaves to the one that is left? Who can be so tenacious of a benefit and so mindful of a kindness? Since for their master's sake dogs even know how to leap upon robbers, and to bar the nocturnal approaches of strangers, and they are ready to die for their masters and to die together with their masters. Often, too, by the clear evidence of a murder committed, dogs have brought forth proofs to convict the guilty, so that in most cases credit has been given to their mute testimony.
At Antioch, they relate, a man was slain at twilight in a more remote part of the city, who had a dog attached to him. A certain soldier, out of desire for plunder, had become the agent of the murder. Covered by the darkness, while the day was still in its shadowy beginning, he had withdrawn to other parts; the corpse lay unburied, a numerous crowd of onlookers stood by, the dog with tearful lament bewailed its master's calamity. By chance the one who had inflicted the death, as the cunning of human wit goes—so that by the assumed authority of moving in the midst he might win credit for innocence—approached that ring of the people who were looking on, and as though pitying drew near to the funeral.
Then the dog, laying aside for a little while its lament of grief, took up the weapons of vengeance, and seizing him held him fast, and as though murmuring a piteous song by way of some epilogue, turned all the bystanders to tears: it brought forth proof of its faith, holding fast the one man out of many and not letting go. At length that man, perturbed, since he could not by any objection of hatred or enmity or envy or any wrong clear himself of so manifest an accuser of the deed, was no longer able to refute the charge. And so—what was harder—he pursued his own punishment, because he could not furnish a defense. What do we, who feed upon His food, render worthy of our Creator? We even dissemble injuries, and often we set before the enemies of God those banquets which we receive from God!
What is simpler than little lambs, which we compare to the tender infancy of small children? Often one of these little lambs in a great flock wanders straying from its mother through all the sheepfolds, and, when it cannot find her, calls the absent one with frequent bleating, that it may rouse the voice of her who will answer, so that toward her sound it may retrace its wandering steps. Though it move among many thousands of sheep, it recognizes the voice of its parent, hastens to its mother, and seeks out also the familiar founts of its mother's milk. Although held by desire for food and drink, it nevertheless runs past the swollen udders of others, though they overflow with the moisture of milk; it seeks its mother alone, and signifies that only the meager juices of its own mother's udder abound for it. She too, among many thousands of little lambs, knows her son alone.
There is one bleating of very many, the same appearance: yet she distinguishes her offspring from the rest and recognizes her son alone by the silent testimony of affection. The shepherd errs in telling apart the sheep, but the little lamb cannot err in recognizing its mother. The shepherd is deceived by appearance, but the sheep is not deceived in affection. There is one smell to all, yet nature has its own scent, which the dear offspring seems to give off by a certain special property. Nature has its own usages and its household senses. The teeth have scarcely begun to break forth in the little infant, and already it knows how to try its own weapons. The puppy has no teeth yet, and as though it had them, it seeks to avenge itself with its mouth. The stag has no horns yet, and nevertheless plays at butting with its forehead, and from that part it threatens weapons which it has not yet experienced.
If the wolf sees a man first, it snatches away his voice and despises him as a victor over a voice taken away; likewise, if it perceives that it has been seen first, it lays aside its ferocity and cannot run. The lion fears the cock, and especially a white one. The wounded she-goat seeks out dittany and by it expels the arrows from its wound. The beasts too know their own remedies. The sick lion seeks an ape, that by devouring it it may be healed. The roe-deer in distress drinks the blood of the wild goat and so wards off the violence of its languor. Every sick wild beast is cured by drinking a dog's blood; the sick bear devours ants, the stag chews little branches of the olive. 'Therefore the wild beasts know how to seek out the things that profit them: but you, O man, are ignorant of your remedies.'
You do not know how to snatch away the strength of your adversary, so that, like the wolf forestalled, he cannot escape you; so that with the eye of your mind you may detect his treachery and first impede the course of his words, and blunt his shamelessness and the sharpness of his argument. But if he forestalls you, he will take away your voice. And if you are struck dumb, loose your garment, that you may loose your speech; and if the wolf rises up against you, take a stone, and he flees. Your stone is Christ. If you flee to Christ, the wolf flees and will not be able to frighten you. This stone Peter sought, when he was tottering amid the waves, and he found it, because he embraced the right hand of Christ. What shall I say of men's delighting in another creature and taking for food that which the leopard flees?
In short, wherever anyone thinks something is to be rubbed with garlic, the leopard leaps away from there and does not resist. The smell which that venomous beast cannot endure, you take in place of food and pour into your inward parts! But sometimes it is used as a medicine for pains: then let it be taken as a remedy, not as food; let it be taken by the sick, not by those who are feasting. You seek a remedy and flee from fasting, as though you could find some greater cure. If a serpent tastes the spittle of a fasting man, it dies. You see how great the power of fasting is, that by his spittle a man kills the earthly serpent—and rightly the spiritual one too. How great a prudence the Lord has instilled even into the smallest creatures! The turtledove casts over its nest leaves of the squill, lest the wolf attack its young.
For it knows that wolves are accustomed to flee leaves of this kind. The little fox knows how to cherish its posterity, and do you not know—do you neglect—how you may keep the posterity of this life more secure against the wolves of spiritual wickedness? But let us return to the surveyor of creation, and let us consider by what reason He has made the necks of some animals shorter and trimmer in form, as for lions and tigers and bears too, and longer for others, as for elephants and camels. Is not the cause evident, that for those wild beasts which feed on flesh there was no need of length of neck? For they do not cast down neck and mouth to the earth for the sake of feeding, but either fall upon a stag, or have caught an ox or a sheep.
But the camel, since it is taller, how could it feed on the tiniest herbs, unless it stretched out its longer neck all the way down to the earth for the purpose of grazing? And so the camel has been allotted, in proportion to its build, a longer neck; the horse in proportion to its own, the ox likewise in a similar way—for these feed on herbs. The elephant, however, has even a projecting proboscis, because, since it is taller than all, it cannot bend itself down to feed. And so it uses its service for gathering food. To that huge beast it pours in the moisture of abundant drink, and therefore it is hollow, so that for quenching the thirst of so great a beast it may draw up full lakes, that with the gathered stream it may flood the drinker.
The neck, indeed, is of a divine design, such as the mass of so great a body demands, lest it too should be more of a burden than of use. And therefore it does not bend its knees, because it had need of stiffer legs, by which, as by columns, so great a frame of limbs could be sustained. It curves its heel slightly, while the rest of its feet are rigid from top to bottom. Nor, as we often lower ourselves into a sitting posture, can so great a beast likewise bend itself; and deservedly it cannot have in common with the other animals the practice of turning or curving itself. It is propped up on this side and that by very large beams, so that in sleep it may rest a little while without danger, because its foot is not distinguished by any jointing of the limbs.
For the tame ones, then, such props as those which have need of this use are provided by human ingenuity; but for the wild and savage ones, since no one lays beneath them props of this kind by which they might be supported, hence comes the danger they incur. For, leaning on a tree, they either rub their ribs or relax themselves in sleep. And the tree sometimes, overcome and bent by so great a body, is broken, and he who had flung himself upon it falls down and cannot raise and lift himself up, and lying there perishes, or, betrayed by his own groaning, is laid low, while his belly and the other softer parts nearby lie open to a wound; for his back and other outer parts no weapons easily wont to penetrate.
There are, however, those who, for the sake of ivory, lay these snares for them: that the trees against which they are wont to lean, on the other side, where they make less frequent use of them, they so weaken the support, that, when the beast lets itself down, it cannot sustain the limbs of its body, and they bring about its fall. But if anyone finds fault with this, let him also find fault with the height of trees, because the higher ones threaten a heavier fall and, once fallen, are more difficult to restore. Yet if we frequently raise up those trees either for the sake of beauty or for a lookout, we ought to approve these qualities also in elephants, because they furnish great use in matters of war.
Hence the Persian battle-line, fierce in wars, is checked—mighty in arrows and in every casting of weapons—because the weapons are hurled from above with a stronger effort, bent down toward the lower parts. Their line advances fenced about as it were by moving towers. In the midst of the plains they fight as though from a wall, and, placed as in some citadel and watchtower, they look upon the battles more than they undergo them; and so, removed from danger, they seem safe upon the masses of the beasts. For who would dare to approach them, when from above he is easily transfixed by javelins, and below is crushed by the onset of the elephants? In short, battle-lines yield to them, and the wedges of armed men, and those squared encampments of the standards. For with an unbearable onrush they rush upon the enemy.
So that they are held back by no battle-line of warriors, by no dense crowd of soldiers, by no opposing wall of shields, but like certain moving mountains they turn about in the battles, and like hills they tower with lofty summit, and with the crash of their bellowing they throw into confusion the confidence of all. What can the foot-soldier do against them, however strong of arm and ready of hand, when a wall hemmed in by hosts of armed men runs against him with its advancing motion? What can the horseman do, when his horse, terrified out of its wits by the monstrousness of so great a beast, scatters in flight? What can the archer do, when from above the iron-clad bodies of the men cannot feel the blow of the javelin, and the beast too is not easily penetrable by iron even when bare, and, fortified with breastplates, cuts through the opposing battle-lines without danger to itself, and crushes the squadrons?
And so, like vast buildings, the elephants are sustained by stronger foundations; otherwise, supported on unequal feet, they would collapse within a short span of life. As it is, however, they prolong their life to three hundred years, and the beasts by their joining of limbs—because all their limbs are fitted to their great size. And therefore their limbs are not separated as ours are, but compacted, so that they may be the stronger. How quickly are men's knees and soles afflicted, if they have stood long, or run too swiftly, or walked continuously! For limbs that are joined and articulated more readily than those that are grown together and solidified admit either a feeling of pain or a cause of injury.
And why do you marvel if they are feared when clad in armor, since they are always armed with their own teeth as with natural darts? Whatever they wrap with their proboscis, they break; and whatever they crush with their foot, they make lifeless as by a kind of collapse of a huge ruin. They wrap groves with their proboscis for their own food, and like certain loftiest serpents they scourge with serpentine coils those they have seized. Often they gather them into a circle, especially when food is picked up from the ground or drink is drawn. They are therefore a proof to us that nothing has been created superfluous. And yet this beast of so great a bulk, made subject to us, serves human commands. For indeed, since we are about to speak of the creation of man, we ought to build up beforehand and foretaste his commendation.
It seemed that creation had nothing more robust than the elephants, nothing so terrible or so tall, nothing so fierce as lions and tigers are. And these serve man and lay aside their own nature under human instruction. They forget what they were born to be, and put on what they are commanded. Why say more? They are taught like little children, they serve like the weak, they are beaten like the timid, they are corrected like subjects, they pass into our ways, since they have lost their own movements. Wondrous, therefore, is nature in the greatest things—for wondrous is the Lord in the heights—wondrous also in the smallest.
For just as we marvel at the level plains no less than at the heights of mountains—we can be more astounded at the loftiness of the cedar than at the brief fruitfulness of the vine or the olive—so it will be possible to marvel no more because something is tall than at the mouse, because it is terrible to the elephant. This, then, is the power of nature: that things terrible to some are objects of dread to others. For a certain prerogative has been granted to individual creatures, that they may be supported by certain proper privileges. The elephant, formidable to bulls, fears the mouse. The lion indeed, the king of beasts, is agitated by the tiny sting of a scorpion and is killed by the venom of a serpent. Surpassing is the beauty of the lion: he shakes the muscles on his maned neck, or, with chest lifted high, raises his face.
But who would not marvel that out of so small a sting of a scorpion—so small that you would think it bodiless—there should come the death of huge bodies? Nor let anyone find fault with this, that the Creator of the serpent has mingled among His creatures other kinds also, whether of animals or of herbs, that are venomous. For these were created for our correction, not for our disfigurement. For the things which are most often an occasion of offence and terror to the slothful or the weak or the impious, are thus a use to others, like tutors to little children.
They seem bitter, harsh and troublesome, formidable with the lash; they deny the freedom of wantonness, they exact the necessity of discipline, they restrain childish spirits with terror, lest they melt away in luxury; and therefore by their severity these turn out frugal, sober, self-controlled, given more to praise than to play. Do you see what those terrible scourges accomplish? So too serpents are scourges for those whose age of mind is feeble and whose virtue is, as it were, of a childish mind; but they cannot harm the stronger. In short, to him who trusts in the Lord it is said: 'You shall walk upon the asp and the basilisk, and you shall trample the lion and the dragon.' A viper bit Paul, and they thought that he, like a sinner scarcely saved from shipwreck, would die of the venom:
but after he remained unharmed, the viper shaken off into the fire, he found greater veneration among those who beheld him. And the Lord Himself too says to all: 'He who believes and is baptized shall be saved; but he who does not believe shall be condemned.' And He said that these would be the signs of those who believe: that they should handle serpents with the hand, and venoms and every deadly thing, even if they drink them, should not be able to harm them. Therefore your own unbelief, O man, is more to be feared by you than the venoms of serpents. Fear them, then, so that at least, while they are dreaded, they may be able to provoke you to faith. But if you do not fear God, then dread at least the avenging venoms of faithlessness.
Now, since you see that the elephants are subjected to you and the lions made subject, know yourself, O man—not, as they say, the saying of Pythian Apollo, but of holy Solomon, who says: 'Unless you know yourself, O fair one among women'—although long before Moses wrote in Deuteronomy: 'Take heed to yourself.' 'O man, take heed to yourself,' says the Law, and the prophet says: 'Unless you know yourself.' To whom does he say this? 'O fair one,' he says, 'among women.' What is fair among women but the soul, which in both sexes possesses an excellence of beauty? And deservedly it is comely, which desires not earthly but heavenly things, not corruptible but incorrupt, in which beauty is not wont to perish;
for all bodily things wither away with the advance of age or with the unevenness of sickness. 'Take heed to this,' says Moses, 'in which you wholly are, in which is the better portion of yourself.' In short, the Lord has interpreted who you are, saying: 'Take heed to yourselves of false prophets'; for these weaken the soul, undermine the mind. You are not, therefore, flesh. For what is flesh without the governance of the soul, the vigor of the mind? Flesh is taken up today, laid aside tomorrow. The flesh is temporal, the soul lasting. The flesh is the garment of the soul, which clothes itself in a certain vesture of the body. You are not, therefore, the garment, but he who uses the garment.
Therefore it is said of the gift, that putting off the old man with his deeds, you may put on the new, who is renewed not in the quality of the body, but in the spirit and the acknowledgment of the gift. You are not flesh, I say; for it is not to the flesh that it is said: 'For the temple of God is holy, which you are,' and elsewhere: 'You are the temple of God, and the holy Spirit of God dwells in you'; but it is said to the renewed and the faithful, in whom the Spirit of God remains. In the carnal, however, it does not remain, because it is written: 'My Spirit shall not remain in these men, since they are flesh.' But let us consider the surveyor of our very creation. 'Let us make,' He says, 'man after the gift and likeness of Ourselves.' Who says this? Is it not God, who made you? What is God?
Flesh or spirit? Not flesh, surely, but spirit, whose likeness flesh cannot be, because He Himself is incorporeal and invisible, but flesh is both grasped and seen. To whom does He speak? Not to Himself, surely, because He does not say 'I make,' but 'Let us make'; not to the angels, because they are ministers, and servants together with the Lord, and works together with the Author cannot have a partnership in the work; but He speaks to the Son, even though the Jews are unwilling, even though the Arians resist. But let both the Jews be silent and the Arians together with their forefathers, who, while they exclude One from the partnership of the divine work, insert many, and the prerogative which they deny to the Son they bestow on petty slaves. But grant that God seemed to you to have needed the aid of servants in order to work:
if the work is common to God with the angels, is the image then common to God and the angels? Would He say to angels: 'Let us make man after the image and likeness of Ourselves'? But hear who the image of God is, from Him who says: 'He who rescued us,' he says, 'from the power of darkness and translated us into the kingdom of the Son of His glory, in whom we have redemption and the remission of sins, who is the image of the invisible God and the firstborn of all creation.' He Himself is the image of the Father, who always is and was in the beginning. In short, He is the image who says: 'Philip, he who sees Me sees the Father also.' And how is it that you, when you see the living image of the living Father, say: 'Show us the Father'? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father in Me?
The image of God is power, not weakness; the image of God is wisdom; the image of God is justice. But wisdom is divine, and justice everlasting. The image of God is He alone who said: 'I and the Father are one,' having so the likeness of the Father that He has the unity of divinity and of fullness. Where He says 'Let us make,' how is there inequality? When again He says 'after Our likeness,' where is there unlikeness? So too in the Gospel, where He says 'I and the Father,' surely it is not one Person; but where He says 'are one,' there is no discrepancy of divinity or of work. Not, therefore, in both is there one Person, but one substance. And He well added 'we are,' because to be always is divine, so that you may believe Him coeternal whom you cannot believe to be unlike.
For He is eternal of whom Moses says: 'He who is has sent me.' Beautifully too did He set first the 'I am.' For if He had set the Father first, you would judge the Son to be lesser; but He set the Son first, who is not fittingly to be believed superior to the Father, and joined the Father, that you may perceive that God the Father and His Son are not held by any prejudgment of rank. 'Take heed,' He says, 'to yourself alone.' For one thing are we ourselves, another thing are the things that are ours, others the things that are about us. We ourselves are, that is, soul and mind; ours are the members of the body and its senses; about us, however, are money, slaves, and the equipment of this life.
Take heed, therefore, to yourself; know yourself—that is, not what kind of arms you have, not how great a bodily strength, not how great possessions, how great power, but what kind of soul and mind, from which all counsels proceed, to which the fruit of your works is referred. For it is the soul that is full of wisdom, full of devotion and justice, since all virtue is from God. To it God says: 'Behold, O Jerusalem, I have painted your walls.' That soul is painted by God which has in itself the gleaming grace of the virtues and the splendor of devotion. That soul is well painted in which the likeness of the divine working shines forth; that soul is well painted in which is the splendor of glory and the image of the paternal substance.
According to this image, which shines back, the painting is precious. According to this image was Adam before sin; but when he fell, he laid aside the image of the heavenly and took on the likeness of the earthly. But let us flee this image, which cannot enter the city of God, because it is written: 'Lord, in Your city You shall bring their image to nothing.' And an unworthy image does not enter, and what has entered is shut out, because, it says, 'there shall not enter into it anything common, and he who does abomination and a lie, but he shall enter into it whose name is in his forehead'—namely, the Lamb's name. Our soul, therefore, is after the image of God. In this you are wholly, O man, because without this you are nothing, but you are earth, and into earth you shall be dissolved.
In short, that you may know that without the soul the flesh is nothing, 'Do not,' He says, 'fear those who can kill the body, but cannot kill the soul.' Why, then, do you presume upon the flesh, you who lose nothing if you lose the flesh? But fear this, lest you be defrauded of the help of your soul. For what exchange shall a man give for his soul, in which there is no small portion of himself, but the substance of the whole human totality? This is that by which, ruling over the rest, you rule over the animals of beasts and birds; this is that which is after the image of God, but the body is after the likeness of the beasts. In the one is the holy mark of divine imitation; in the other, a base fellowship with wild beasts and monsters. But let us treat more finely what it is to be after the image of God. Is the flesh, then, after the image of God?
Then earth is in God, because flesh is earth; then God is corporeal; then He is weak as flesh, and subject to passions? And perhaps the head seems to you to be after the likeness of God, because it is prominent, or the eyes, because they behold, or the ears, because they hear. If you consider height, do we seem tall in comparison with buildings, because we project a little above the earth with our crown? But is it for this reason not shameful that we are called like to God—because we are taller than serpents and other creeping things, or than little does and sheep, or wolves? And how much, in that respect, are the camel and the elephant taller than we! The gaze, indeed, is excellent for beholding the elements of the world, for knowing things that no one announces, but which your sight detects:
yet how great a thing is this very thing which we see, that on account of it we should say we are after the likeness of God, who sees all things, beholds all things, detects hidden affections, searches out the secrets of the heart? Am I not ashamed to say this, when I cannot see my whole self? What is before my feet I see; what is behind my back I cannot see. I do not know my own neck, I am not acquainted with the back of my head, I cannot see my own loins. Likewise, how great a thing is it that we hear, when I can neither see nor hear what is even a little way off? If creatures—if walls—be in the way, sight is hindered, hearing is hindered. Then, our body sticks fast in one place, is shut up in a narrow space; all wild beasts are broader than man, all also swifter.
It is not, then, the flesh that can be after the image of God, but our soul, which is free and roams hither and thither with its far-ranging thoughts and counsels, which by reflection beholds all things. Behold, we are now in Italy, yet we ponder things that seem to belong to the eastern or the western regions; we seem to converse with those who are stationed in Persia, and we see those who dwell in Africa. If that land has received any whom we know, we follow them as they journey, we cling to its allurements, we are joined to the absent, we address the parted; and the dead too we rouse up to converse with us, and we embrace them as though living, and hold them fast, and render to them the offices and use of life.
That, therefore, is after the image of God which is reckoned not by bodily measure but by the vigour of the mind: which beholds the absent, traverses lands beyond the sea by its gaze, runs across them with a look, searches out hidden things, and in a single moment carries its perceptions hither and thither through the bounds of the whole world and the secret places of the universe; which is joined to God, cleaves to Christ, descends into the lower regions and ascends, and dwells freely in heaven. Hear, then, the apostle who says: 'But our citizenship is in heaven.' Is it not, then, after the image of God, the soul in which God ever abides? But hear that it is after the image of God; for the apostle says: 'We all, with unveiled face beholding the glory of God, are transformed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord.'
Since, therefore, we have learned that the soul is after the image of God, let us now consider whether the privilege was spoken of the soul: 'Let us make man.' But hear this also, that the soul is called by the name of 'man.' For it is written in Genesis: 'And the sons of Joseph, who were born to him in Egypt, were nine souls. All the souls, therefore, that entered with Jacob into Egypt were seventy-five.' And far more fittingly is it called the soul, whether in Latin 'unitus' or in Greek 'anthropos': the one term taken from humanity, the other from the keenness of beholding — which without doubt suits the soul rather than the body. To this same matter that saying in the Lamentations of Jeremiah also rightly accords: 'The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him.'
He spoke of men, yet thought it right to add 'the soul'; for the soul seeks better when it is alone, withdrawing itself from the mire of the body and from carnal desire. It is itself after the image of God, conformed to the Lord Jesus; and they who are conformed to the Son of God are holy. For thus we read, Paul saying: 'And we know that to them that love God all things work together for good, to them who, according to his purpose, are called holy; whom he foreknew, he also predestinated to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brethren. And whom he predestinated, them he also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified.'
Whether, then, justification seems to you to be conferred according to the body or according to the soul, I pray you answer. But you cannot doubt, since righteousness, from which justification comes, belongs surely to the mind and not to the body. You are painted, therefore, O man, painted by the Lord your God. You have a good citadel and a good painter. Do not blot out the good painting, which shines not by a false dye but by truth, not pressed out in wax but in grace. You blot out the painting, O woman, if you smear your face with material pigments, if you overspread it with an acquired blush.
That painting belongs to vice, not to beauty; that painting belongs to deceit, not to simplicity; that painting is temporary — it is wiped away either by rain or by sweat —; that painting beguiles and deceives, so that you neither please him whom you desire to please (for he perceives that what pleases is not yours but another's), and you displease your own Maker, who sees that his work has been blotted out. Tell me: if upon some craftsman's work you were to bring in another, who should overlay the work of that former artist with new works, would not he who recognizes that his own work has been adulterated grieve? Do not take away the painting of God and assume the painting of a harlot, since it is written: 'Shall I take the members of Christ and make them the members of a harlot? God forbid!'
But if anyone adulterates the work of God, he commits a graver offense than the former. For it is a grave crime that you should think a man can paint you better than God. It is grave that God should say of you: 'I do not recognize my own colours, I do not recognize my own image, I do not recognize the countenance which I myself formed. I reject what is not mine. Seek the one who painted you; with him keep fellowship; from him receive the grace to whom you have paid the wage.' What will you answer? And if it is grave to adulterate the work of God, what shall we say of those who do away with the work of God, who shed human blood, who wrest away the life that God has given, who say: 'Let us take away the just man, for he is unprofitable to us'? Whence it was well read today:
'The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests where they may rest; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.' The fox, then, hides itself in a hole, the birds protect themselves in a nest; but man is not hidden in a hole, but is ensnared. For the hole is the mouth of man, the deep hole is the breast of man, where are harmful and fraudulent designs and evil thoughts. You walk along, and another prepares a snare for you. You walk in the midst of nooses, which your enemies have hidden for you in the way. Look about you, therefore, on every side, that you may escape like a roe from the nets and like a bird from the snare. The roe by the keenness of its sight avoids the nets, the bird shuns the snares if it betakes itself to the heights and flies above earthly things;
for in the heights no one stretches nets, no one hides a snare. Therefore he whose citizenship is in the things above is not wont to fall as prey into the trap. But why do you marvel if man is deceived by man, when the Son of man had not where to rest? And he indeed made such a man as one in whom he might lay his head; but after there began to be in our breast not a resting place for our neighbour but a pit, after one began to weave snares for another whom he ought to help, Christ turned his head away from us; yet afterward he chose rather to offer that very head to death for us. Be not, therefore, fraudulent, cruel, harsh, that Christ may rest his head in you.
And likewise, when he had made the monsters of the sea, when he had made the kinds of wild beasts and of cattle, he did not rest; but he rested after he had made man after his own image. In whom he might rest, hear him saying: 'Or upon whom shall I rest, save upon the humble and the quiet and him that trembleth at my words?' Be, then, humble and quiet, that God may rest in your affection. He who did not rest in the beasts, much more does he not rest in a bestial breast. For there are bestial spirits, there are wild beasts clothed in the form of men, of whom the Lord says: 'Beware of false prophets, who come to you in the clothing of sheep, but inwardly are ravening wolves.'
In these, however, God does not rest, but he rests in human characters, which God made after his own image and likeness, when he made the man, who ought not to veil his head, since he is the image and glory of God. To the soul of this man he says: 'Behold, O Jerusalem, I have painted thy walls.' He did not say, 'I have painted thy belly,' he did not say, 'I have painted thy lower parts,' but he says, 'I have painted thy walls' — declaring himself to have given to man the strong defenses of walls, so that, if there be a watchful sentinel upon the walls, he may be able to repel the danger of a siege. And so he says:
'I have not given you pleasures, nor the allurements of lusts, nor the incentives of luxury, nor the coveting of another's beauty; but I have given you the foundations of walls, I have given you the lofty summits of towers, in which, being stationed, you need not fear to be overcome by the enemy, nor dread the terrible assaults, however violent, of the onrushing legions.' Hence you have in Isaiah that the soul of the just, or the Church, says: 'I am a city, a fortified city, I am a besieged city' — fortified through Christ, besieged through the devil. But she ought not to fear the siege whose helper is Christ; for she is fortified by spiritual grace and besieged by worldly perils. Whence also in the Song you have it said: 'I am a wall, and my breasts are towers.'
The Church is the wall, her towers are the priests, who abound both with the word from natural things and with discipline from moral teaching. Know yourself, then, O comely soul, for you are the image of God. Know yourself, O man, for you are the glory of God. Hear in what way you are the glory. The prophet says: 'Thy knowledge is made wonderful from me' — that is, in my work thy majesty is the more wonderful, in the fashioning of man thy wisdom is proclaimed. While I behold myself, whom thou dost discern in those very hidden thoughts and inward affections, I acknowledge the mysteries of thy knowledge.
Know yourself, then, O man, how great you are, and give heed to yourself, lest at any time, entangled in the snares of the devil, you become the prey of the hunter, lest perchance you run into the jaws of that foul lion who roars and prowls about, seeking whom he may devour. Give heed to yourself, that you may consider what enters into you and what goes forth from you. I speak not of food, which is swallowed and voided, but I speak of thought, I assert it of speech. Let not the lust of another's bed enter into you, let it not creep into your mind, let not the eye seize upon the beauty of a passing woman, let not the spirit shut it in, let not your speech weave the engines of temptation, let it not betray in guile, let it not bespatter your neighbour with slanderous reproach. God made you a hunter, not a stormer of cities, for he said:
'Behold, I send many hunters' — hunters not of accusation but of acquittal, hunters not indeed of guilt but of grace. You are a fisher of Christ, to whom it is said: 'Henceforth thou shalt be one who gives life to men.' So cast your nets, so cast your eyes, so cast your words, that you may crush no one, but may lift up him who is tossed by the waves. 'Give heed,' he says, 'to yourself.' So stand, that you fall not; so run, that you may attain to the prize; so contend, that you may often gain the decision, since the crown is owed to a lawful contest. You are a soldier: diligently scout out the enemy, lest he creep upon you by night. You are an athlete: be nearer to your adversary with your hands than with your face, lest he strike your eye.
Let your gaze be unhindered, your step nimble, that you may overthrow the one who rushes in, seize the one who gives ground, evade a wound with watchful eye, and repel it with a strong encounter. But if you have been wounded, give heed to yourself, run to the physician, seek the remedy of repentance. Give heed to yourself, for you have flesh, which quickly falls away. Let the good physician of souls, the divine word, come to you; let it sprinkle upon you the oracles of the Lord as healing medicines. Give heed to yourself, lest a hidden, wicked word arise in your heart; for it creeps like poison and brings deadly contagion. Give heed to yourself, lest you forget God who made you, and lest you take his name in vain.
Give heed to yourself, says the Law, lest, when you have eaten and are filled, and have built houses and begun to dwell in them, and your flocks are multiplied, and you abound in gold and silver, and all things you possess are increased in multitude, you exalt yourself in heart and forget the Lord your God. For what have you, O man, that you have not received? Do not all these things pass away like a shadow? Is not this house of yours dust and ruin? Are not all these things false? Is not the treasure of the world vanity? Are not you yourself ashes? Look upon the tombs of men and see what will remain of you but ashes and bones — that is, of your body. Look, I say, and tell me whether there be there rich and poor. Distinguish the needy and the powerful.
Naked we are all born, naked we die. There is no distinction among the corpses of the dead, save perhaps that the bodies of the rich, when their span is full, stink the more, distended with luxury. Whom have you heard of as a poor man dying of surfeit? His poverty profits him; it exercises his body and does not make it decay. Yet neither have we heard his offspring forsaken or his seed begging bread, since he who works well in his own land abounds with nourishment. Give heed, then, to yourself, O rich man, for you too bear flesh like the poor man. Give heed to yourself. Your soul is light in the day. Though the flesh be mortal, the soul is enduring; though you lack money, you lack not grace; though there be no ample house, no widespread possession, heaven lies open, the earth is free. The elements are given to all in common:
the adornments of the world lie open alike to rich and poor. Are the gilded ceilings of the most precious houses more beautiful than the face of heaven adorned with shining stars? Are the broad estates of the rich more spacious than the expanses of the earth? Wherefore to those who join house to house and farm to farm it was said: 'Shall you alone dwell upon the earth?' You have a greater house, O poor man, in which you cry out and are heard. 'O Israel,' says the prophet, 'how great is the house of God, and how vast the place of his possession! It is great and has no end, lofty and immeasurable.' The house of God is common to rich and poor; yet it is hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. But perhaps you grieve that no light of gilded lamps shines for you:
but a far more glorious light illumines you — the resplendent moon shines for you. Perhaps you complain of winter, that no heated chamber is provided for you to be warmed by its fires; but you have the heat of the sun, which tempers for you the round world and defends you from the wintry cold. Or do you think those men blessed who are thronged by crowds of attendant servants? But those who require other men's feet know not how to use their own; in short, they are preceded by a few and carried by very many — unless perhaps you marvel at this, that they abound in gold and silver and money.
You see how much they abound; you do not see how much they lack. You think it precious to recline on ivory couches, and you do not consider that the earth is more precious, which spreads for the poor man beds of grass, on which his rest is sweet and his sleep delightful — which that other, laid out upon a golden bedstead, seeks all night long awake and does not attain. O how much more blessed than he, waking, you depart while you rest! Besides, that which is far more excellent is this: that the just man who has been in want here will alone abound there, and he who has had labour here will have consolation there; but he who has received good things here cannot hope for their reward there. For poverty reserves its reward; wealth consumes it.
Give heed, then, to yourself, O poor man; give heed, O rich man, for both in poverty and in riches there are temptations. Therefore the wise man says: 'Give me neither riches nor poverty.' And he tells for what reason he asks this: 'It is enough for a man to have what suffices him.' Riches distend the belly with feasts, and likewise the mind with cares and anxieties. And so he asks that there be appointed for him the things that are needful and sufficient, 'lest,' he says, 'being filled, I become a liar and say, Who sees me? or, being made poor, I commit theft and swear by the name of the Lord.' The temptations of the world, then, whether of the lifted-up, are to be fled, lest the poor man despair and the wealthy grow insolent. For it is written: 'When you have driven out the nations and have begun to use their lands, do not say, My own strength, and not...'
Such is the man who ascribes his wealth to his own merit, and therefore, as though approved, does not recognize his own error, but drags out his sin with a long rope. For if he should believe that the increase of money comes from chance or from fortuitous occurrence or from base cunning, there is no room for insolence in matters wherein there is either no praise and only empty labour, or a shameless greed that knows not how to set a limit to pleasure. But now some things must be said about the body of man itself, which who would deny to be more excellent than all other things in comeliness and grace?
For although the substance of all earthly bodies may seem to be one and the same, and although strength and height are greater in certain beasts, yet the form of the human body is upright in posture and lofty, so that there is neither monstrous tallness nor mean and abject littleness. Then the very build of the body is pleasant and graceful, so that there is neither beast-like vastness to cause horror nor a thin slenderness. And first of all let us recognize that the structure of the human body is a likeness of the world; for as heaven rises above the air, the lands, and the sea, which are as it were certain members of the world, so also we see the head rise above the rest of the limbs of our body and be the most excellent of all — as heaven among the elements, as a citadel among the rest of the walls of a city.
In this citadel there dwells, as it were, a royal wisdom, according to the prophetic saying that 'the eyes of the wise man are in his head'; and this head is safer than the rest, and from it vigour and providence are supplied to all the members. For what would the strength and sturdiness of the arms avail, what the swiftness of the feet, unless the imperial power of the head, as their chief, were to lend its support? For from it all things are either deserted or upheld. What would fortitude do, unless it use the eye as a guide to battle, what flight, if there be no sight? The whole body is a dark prison, unless it be illumined by the gaze of the eyes. What, therefore, the sun and moon are in heaven, that the eyes are in man.
The sun and moon are the two lights of the world; but the eyes, like certain stars in the head, shine from above and illumine the lower parts with clear light, and do not suffer us to be wrapped in the darkness of night. They are like certain watchmen who keep guard by night. For even out of sleep, while the rest of the limbs are forgetful, they are roused more quickly than the others, and, watchful, look round upon all things; for they are nearer to the brain, whence all the use of seeing flows. Nor let anyone think that I have descended too hastily to this point, that, leaving aside the crown of the head, I should extol the eyes, since it is not amiss to praise the chief thing in a part; for it is certain that the eyes are a portion of the head. The head, therefore, explores all things with the eyes, searches out hidden things with the ears, learns secrets, hears what is done by others in the lands.
And the very crown of the head — how pleasant and pleasing it is, how comely the hair, how venerable in the aged, how decorous in the young, how trim in women, how soft in boys! Long hair becomes one sex, and shorn hair becomes another. From trees one may estimate what is the grace of the human head. On the head of a tree is all its fruit, there is all its beauty; its foliage either shelters us from the rains or defends us from the sun. Take away the tree's foliage, and the whole tree is unpleasant. How great, then, is the adornment of the human head, which fortifies and clothes our brain — that is, the seat and origin of our senses — with the hairs of the head, lest it be vexed either by cold or by heat!
For there is the fountain of all things, and therefore where injury harms, there grace stands preeminent. What is a man without a head, since he is wholly in the head? When you see the head, you recognize the man; if the head be lacking, no recognition can be present; the trunk lies ignoble, without honour, without name. Only the heads of princes cast in bronze, and faces wrought of bronze or marble, are worshipped by men. Not without reason, therefore, do the other members serve this as their counselor, and carry it about with servile bearing as though it were a deity, and bear it set on high. Whence by a censor's power it directs whither it will the obedient services of certain little servants, and decrees the precepts to be performed by each. You may see them serving their emperor with free, unhired soldiery.
Some carry, some feed, some defend or render their service; they obey as to a prince, they wait as upon a lord. Whence there issues, as it were, a kind of watchword, telling what region the feet should traverse, what duties of warfare the hands should perform in completing works, what rule of abstaining or of eating the belly should hold under the imposed discipline. To this head the forehead is free, open with bared temples, which betrays the disposition of the mind by its appearance — now glad, now sadder, now drawn up to severity, now relaxed to gentleness — which by its outward signs expresses the inward will. A kind of image of the soul speaks in the countenance, the base of faith, on which the name of the Lord is daily written and kept.
The same forehead is followed by the twin hedges of the eyebrows, which stretch forth defenses before the eyes and weave in grace, so that both the charm of comeliness may smile and the care of protection may stand by. For if anything of filth fall from the head, or the dust of sand, or the dew of mist, or the sweat of a moist crown, it is caught by the eyebrow, lest, with its keen edge being offended, it disturb the tender visions of the soft eyes. The eyes cleave, as it were, to certain brows of mountains, that, both protected by the mountain's summit, they may be safer, and, set as on a height, they may look out upon all things as from some loftier stage. For it was not fitting that they should be lowly like the ears or the mouth and the inner cavities of the nostrils themselves.
For a watchtower is always set on high, so that the approach of oncoming hostile bands may be reconnoitered, lest unawares they surprise the idle townsfolk or the emperor's army. So too they break up the inroads of robbers, if scouts be stationed on the walls or towers or on the brow of a lofty mountain, that from above they may behold the plains of the regions, in which the ambushes of robbers cannot lie hidden. On the sea also, if one stationed there conjectures that he is drawing near to land, the lookout of his vow climbs to the very summit of the mast and the high horns of the yard-arms, and from afar salutes the land still invisible to the rest of the voyagers. And perhaps you may say:
If a higher lookout was necessary, why were not the eyes set above the very top of the head, as they are at the top in crabs or beetles, which, though no head appears, yet have their necks and backs loftier than the rest of the body? But those have a strong shell and not so thin a membrane as ours, which can easily be offended and cut through by bramble and other thorns. To other living creatures also there is a form of this kind, that they can turn their eyes either toward the neck, as horses or oxen, and well-nigh all wild beasts, or toward their wings, as birds, that they may enjoy safe rest. But for us it was fitting that the eyes be set in the highest part of the body, as in a citadel, and be defended from every even the slightest injury — two things which seemed mutually opposed.
For if they were in a low place for protection's sake, their function would be hindered; if on the very top, they would lie open to injury. And so, that nothing might be detracted either from the use of their function or from the warding off of injury, he set the eyes in that place to which the eyebrows from above impart not the least protection, and beneath, the somewhat raised cheeks add no slight fortification; the nostrils hedge in the inner part, and the outer part too the projecting bosses of the forehead and the cheeks, and — though it seem that they wall round the joined and leveled confines with a framework of bones — between these in the middle are set the orbs of the eyes, safe for taking precaution and free for beholding, and beautiful for grace, shining as they do with the appearance of crystal.
In the midst of these are the pupils, which perform the office of seeing. Lest these be harmed by any onset of incoming injury, they are guarded all around by hairs set close on this side and that, as by a kind of rampart. Whence the prophet, asking for sure help for himself, says: 'Keep me, O Lord, as the pupil of the eye,' that there might be made for him so anxious and safe a guarding by divine protection as he deigned to fortify the pupil of the eye with a most secure rampart of nature; likewise because innocence and integrity, when sprinkled with even a light filth, are violated and lose the gift of their grace, and therefore it must be foreseen lest any gathering dust befoul it or any straw of sin vex it, since it is written:
'First cast out the beam from your own eye, and then you will see to cast out the mote from your brother's eye.' And so, on account of the eyes, those skilled in healing hold that the brain of man is placed in the head, but that the other senses of our body are set in a neighbouring dwelling on account of the brain. For the beginning of the nerves and of all the senses of voluntary motion is the brain, and from it flows the whole cause of those things which we have mentioned. But the beginning of the arteries and of the innate heat, by which the vital parts are animated and warmed, most men judge to be the heart. The nerves, moreover, are as it were the instrument of the senses, which, springing from the source, flow down and are derived through the parts of the body into each several function.
And therefore the brain is softer than the rest, because it receives all the senses. Hence also the nerves, which report all things that either the eye has seen, or the ear heard, or the smell inhaled, or the tongue uttered, or the mouth received of taste. For what is soft is more apt for compassion (suffering-with), but what is hard, from a certain rigidity of the nerves, is more effective for action. The office of hearing also is most excellent, and a grace next to that of sight. Therefore the ears stand out more prominently, both that they may display the comeliness of adornment and that they may receive all that has flowed down from the crown of any filth or moisture, and likewise that in their windings the voice, struck back, may enter the inner passages without offense.
For unless it were so, who would not be rendered thunderstruck at every louder sound of voice, since amid these very aids we frequently feel ourselves struck by innumerable cries, an unforeseen blow? Then you may see, as it were, certain bulwarks stretched out against the harshness of cold and the burning of heat, so that neither does the cold penetrate the open ducts nor does excessive heat scorch them. But the winding of the inner ears furnishes a kind of measure and discipline of modulation, since through the windings of the ears a certain harmony is wrought, and the sound of the entering voice is expressed in certain measured tones.
That the windings of the ears are, moreover, retentive of the speech received, experience itself teaches us; for whether in the cleft of mountains, or in the recess of rocks, or where it is built up in the winding of rivers, the voice is heard sweeter, and the echo, returning pleasant responses, resounds. The very wax of the ears too is not useless, which binds the voice, so that there may be in us both a more retentive memory and grace of it. But what shall I say of the nostrils, which by their forked and elongated opening furnish a kind of cavern for receiving odours, so that the smell may not pass as a guilty thing, but may cling longer to the nostrils and feed the brain and the senses by their channel? Therefore an odour, once received, smells longer than speech resounds or sight appears.
Very often what you have smelled for a brief moment breathes in your nostrils the whole day long. Through them also the purgings of the head flow down and are drained off without harm or any offense to the body. There is also no slight sense in touch, and in it a most pleasing delight, pure and clean; for very often by touch we test things which we cannot test by the eyes. The last office too is that of the mouth or the tongue, which nevertheless supplies strength to all. For neither would the eyes have vigour for their wanderings unless they received the power of bodily substance, which is supplied by food and drink, nor the ears for hearing, nor the nostrils for smelling, nor the hands for touching, unless the whole body be strengthened by nourishment.
For we fail in strength unless we repair it by the constant supply of suitable food. In short, those worn out by hunger take delight in none of the pleasures of the senses, but, as though deprived of them, do not feel their allurements. Why should I describe the rampart of the teeth, by which food is prepared and the utterance of a full voice is made? What nourishment would please without teeth? In short, we frequently perceive those mature in age to grow old the more quickly for this very reason, that, having lost their teeth, they can take in no substance of stronger food. Therefore infancy is mute, because it does not yet have the instrument of voice. The office of the tongue too is most precious, not only in speaking but also in eating.
For the tongue is, as it were, the plectrum of the speaker, and is the hand, so to speak, of one who eats, which thrusts forward the food as it slides down and serves it to the teeth. The voice too is carried along by a kind of rowing of the air and is borne through the empty space, and by its own force it strikes the air, now stirring up, now soothing the feeling of the hearer; it calms the angry, it raises up the broken, it consoles the grieving. Let song, then, be something we share in common with the birds; but to whom, and with what sound of voice one should employ it — that which is rational — cannot be shared in common with all living things that are, of course, irrational. For the senses themselves are also common to us with the other animals, yet the other creatures do not use them with the same skill as we.
The heifer too lifts its eyes to heaven, but it knows not what it gazes upon; wild beasts lift their gaze, birds lift it, all have free vision; but in man alone is there an interpreter of the feeling for the things he beholds. He gazes with his eyes upon the risings and settings of the constellations, he sees the adornment of heaven, he marvels at the orbits of the stars, he understands too the various brilliances of each, when the evening-star rises, when the morning-star; why the one shines at evening, the other at dawn; what motions Orion has, what eclipses the moon undergoes, how the sun knows its own settings and keeps the circuits of its course by a fixed observance. The other living creatures hear as well, but who except man understands by hearing?
Man alone of all the kinds that are on the earth gathers up the secrets of wisdom by hearing, by meditation, and by prudence — he who can say: I will hear what the Lord God will speak within me. This is the most precious thing: that man becomes the instrument of the divine voice and with bodily lips gives utterance to the heavenly oracle, as in that passage: Cry out. What shall I cry? All flesh is grass. He received what he should say, and he cried out. Let those keep their own prudence who measure out with a measuring-rod the spaces of heaven and of the lands; let them keep their own understanding, of which the Lord says: And the understanding wherewith you feed I will reject. Nor will I set in this place the numbers of speech and the measures of musical wisdom on which men feast. But I define as wisdom that of which the prophet speaks:
The uncertain and hidden things of your wisdom you have made manifest to me. But what shall I say of the kiss of the mouth, which is a token of devotion and of love? Doves too kiss one another, but what is that compared with the loveliness of the human kiss, in which the badge of friendship and of humanity shines forth, in which the faithful affection of full charity is expressed? Hence the Lord, condemning it in the traitor as a kind of monstrous thing, says: Judas, do you betray the Son of Man with a kiss? That is: turning the badge of charity into a sign of betrayal, do you use this pledge of peace as a mark of faithlessness, to the workshop of cruelty? Therefore by the oracle of the divine voice He convicts the one who by the beastly homage of the mouth brought death rather than offering the bonds of love.
This also is a chief thing: that men alone express with the mouth what we feel in the heart, and so we mark out with the speech of the mouth the silent thoughts of the mind. What then is the mouth of man but a certain sanctuary of speech, a fountain of discourse, the hall of words, the storehouse of the will? We have set it forth as a kind of royal palace of the human body, in which, though there be a certain smallness of proportion, yet its form surpasses the rest. There follows the throat, through which the vital exchange and the passage of breath is poured into the whole body. Then come the arms and the strong muscles of the upper arms, the hands strong for working and, with their rather long fingers, apt for grasping.
Hence comes the readier use of working, hence the elegance of writing and that pen of the scribe writing swiftly, by which the oracles of the divine voice are expressed. The hand is what serves food to the mouth, the hand is what stands out by glorious deeds, which, as the mediatrix of divine grace, is laid upon the holy altars, by which we offer and receive the heavenly sacraments; the hand is what works and likewise dispenses the divine mysteries, by whose name Elisha did not disdain to declare himself a man of God, since David says: The right hand of the Lord has wrought strength, the right hand of the Lord has exalted me. The hand is what made all things, as almighty God said: Has not my hand made all these things? The hand is the bulwark of the whole body, the defender of the head.
And though it is lower in position, it grooms the whole crown of the head and adorns it with becoming ornament. Who could worthily set forth the lattice-work of the breast and the softness of the belly? For otherwise the softer inner organs could not be cherished, and the folds of the intestines would without doubt be injured by the hard bones. What is so salutary as that the lung should be joined to the heart by a neighboring boundary, so that when the heart blazes up with anger and indignation, it may the more quickly be tempered by the blood and moisture of the lung? And for this reason the lung is also soft, because it is always moist, so that it may at once soften the harshness of indignation. These things we run through cursorily for this reason: that we may seem, like the unlearned, to touch only on what lies at hand, not, like physicians, to scrutinize more fully and to track down the things that are hidden in the recesses of nature.
The spleen too has a fruitful nearness to the liver, for while it takes in what it may feed upon, it wipes away whatever of filth it has detected, so that through the finer fibers of the liver the thin and subtle remnants of food may pass, which are turned into blood and serve the strength, and are not expelled with the filth of dung. And the encircling coils of the intestines, bound to one another in turn though without any knot, what else do they show but the divine foresight of the Creator, namely that the food should not pass through quickly and at once run down from the stomach? For if this happened, a perpetual hunger and continual lust of devouring would be bred in men.
For when the inner organs were emptied and exhausted, being voided by a momentary discharge, an insatiable and unappeasable craving for food and drink would necessarily be engendered, which without doubt an untimely death would follow. And therefore the food is providently prepared first in the upper stomach, then cooked in the liver, and its juice, digested by the heat of the liver, is transfused into the remaining parts of the body; and by that substance the human limbs are nourished — which the vigorous receive for growth, the old for endurance — while the remainder, as something superfluous, is led down through the intestines and channeled off through that crosswise doorway. Indeed even in Genesis the ark of Noah is arranged after the structure of the human body, concerning which God said: Make for yourself an ark of squared timbers.
And you shall make nests in it, and you shall pitch it within and without with pitch. And thus you shall make the ark; and: You shall make the door on the side, and the lower parts of the ark you shall make with second and third stories. This therefore the Lord signifies, that the door is on the hinder part, through which the superfluities of food are expelled. For our Creator, led by seemliness, turned away the channel of the remnants from the face of man, lest, while we stoop, we should defile our sight. Consider this also: that those things which are full of shame have been set in that place where, being covered by garments, they cannot disgrace us. The beating of the veins is a messenger either of infirmity or of health.
Yet these same veins, though they are diffused through the whole body, are neither bare nor uncovered, and are covered by light tissues in such a way that there is opportunity for examination and swiftness of sensing, since there is no thickness of flesh that could muffle the pulse. The bones too are all covered with thin tissue and bound up with sinews, but especially those of the head are covered with a light hide and, that they may have some defense against rains and cold, are clothed with thicker hair. What shall I say of the genitals, which, by veins led down from the region of the neck through the kidneys and loins, receive the generative seed for the office and grace of procreating? What of the function of the feet, which sustain the whole body without any injury from the burden?
The knee is flexible, by which beyond the other members the Lord's displeasure is softened, anger is soothed, grace is called forth. For this is the gift of the most high Father toward the Son: that at the name of the Lord all should bend the knee, of things heavenly and earthly and beneath the earth, and every tongue should confess that the Lord Jesus is in the glory of God the Father. For there are two things that soften God beyond the rest: humility and faith. The foot, then, expresses the disposition of humility and the homage of diligent service; faith makes the Son equal to the Father and confesses the same glory of both. And rightly man has not more, but two feet;
for four feet belong to wild beasts and brutes, two to birds; and therefore man is, as it were, one of the winged creatures, who by his sight seeks the heights and flits aloft, as by a kind of rowing, through the keenness of his lofty senses. And therefore it has been said of him: Your youth shall be renewed like the eagle's, in that he is nearer to heavenly things and loftier than the eagles, he who can say: But our citizenship is in the heavens. But now let there be an end to our discourse, since the sixth day is completed and the sum of the world's work is brought to its close, man being plainly made perfect, in whom is the sovereignty over all living things and a certain summit of the universe and the grace of every worldly creature. Surely let us yield to silence, since God rested from all the works of the world.
But He rested in the retreat of man, He rested in his mind and purpose; for He had made man capable of reason, an imitator of Himself, an emulator of the virtues, desirous of the heavenly graces. In these God rests, who says: Or upon whom shall I rest, except upon the humble and quiet one, and him who trembles at my words? I give thanks to the Lord our God, who made a work of such a kind in which He might rest. He made the heaven — I do not read that He rested; He made the earth — I do not read that He rested; He made the sun and the moon and the stars — nor do I read there that He rested; but I read that He made man and then rested, having one to whom He might remit sins.
Or perhaps then already the mystery of the Lord's future Passion went before, by which it was revealed that Christ would rest in man — He who was predestining rest for Himself in the body for the redemption of man, according to what He Himself said: I slept and took my rest, and rose again, because the Lord upheld me. For He Himself rested who made all. To Him be honor, glory, and everlastingness, from the ages, both now and always and unto all the ages of ages. Amen.