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.