雜記與文集 第 16 章

When I was now rejoicing in the longed-for end of the work I had undertaken, and a quiet harbor was receiving me, tossed about by twelve volumes—where, even if not praised, at least delivered, I had arrived—the sweet fellowship of friends thrust me back into the open sea of cogitation, demanding that I should open up certain things, abstruse both in sacred and in secular books, that I had discovered concerning the substance of the soul or its virtues, to me, to whom it was given to unlock the secrets of such mighty matters; adding that it was exceedingly absurd, if we should suffer ourselves to be ignorant, as though alien from us, of that through which we know so many things, since to know that by which we have understanding is useful for all matters. For it is no foreign matter to speak about one's own sense, since nature, when interrogated, answers to itself, nor does it reach far to be able to find itself.

With us is ever that very thing which we seek; it is present, it handles, it speaks, and, if it be lawful to say so, amid these things it is unknown. Accordingly that which is at hand to itself ought to be known, because it is then more set before itself, when it is more subtly treated of. For since it has been enjoined by the wise that we should know ourselves, how can this be sustained, if we hold ourselves unknown? For we desire to know the courses of the planets contrary to the heaven, the consonant gliding of the constellations. For of these some are abiding and lacking motion, but others which are ever turned with a moving rotation and at no times rest.

These, as the teachers of this world attempted to investigate, are rolled with harmonic delights in an inestimable modulation, whose tinklings and concord effect a united sweet-sounding melody. We desire also to comprehend the height of the aether, the measure of the earth, the cloud-bearing rains, the storms of fierce hail, the trembling of stable lands, the nature of the wandering winds, the depth of the inconstant sea, the powers of the green herbs, the dissociated combinations of the four elements throughout every body; and is it to be endured that it cannot know its very self, to which it has been granted from on high to discuss such great things? For we do not seek anything by contention, but most modestly we desire to know the most profound matters.

Let us therefore first learn why it is called the soul (anima), then what its definition is; third, what its substantial quality is; fourth, whether it is to be believed to have any form; fifth, what moral virtues it has, which the Greeks call aretai, conferred upon it for its honor and glory; sixth, what natural virtues it has, namely for containing the substance of the body; seventh, let the origin of the soul be discussed; eighth, since it is diffused through all the members, where rather it is to be believed to be seated; ninth, let us learn about the form and composition of the body itself; tenth, what properties the soul of sinners has, let it be declared to us by fitting signs;

eleventh, by what distinction the souls of the just may be known, so that those whom we cannot see with these eyes we may infer by probable indications; twelfth, in the resurrection, which the truly wise man believes, what is felt to become of each, we especially desire to learn, so that the fragile hearts of mortals may be roused to the desires divinely promised. Answer us these things, by God's enabling, in the order observed, that both we may easily be instructed and you may deserve to find the glory of a teacher. I said that these propositions accord not with the precepts of kings which were lately being treated, but with profound and remote dialogues, which are proved to seek not so much these bodily ears as the attentive and most pure hearing of the inner man.

Nor is it for that reason easy to speak of the soul itself, since through it we know that countless things are unfolded. For the eye, which reaches as far as the stars, has not the power to see itself; and our palate, though it perceives diverse things by taste, is ignorant of what flavour it is itself. The nostrils too draw in the various odours of fragrant bodies, yet do not perceive what they themselves smell of. Our brain, finally, though it transmits sensation to the remaining members, is itself read to possess no sensation. And then, what sort of things could I, weary, set forth, who with eager mind was already hastening toward the end of my labour? Lastly, you, friends so sweet, lay upon me to ponder yet again that which, by reasoning beyond dispute, you know to be named from 'compelling' (cogere);

especially since this matter, debated by many, seems to have been left almost inexplicable. But when by many arguments I could neither overcome their wits, nor had they resolved to grant me my own wish, being overcome I begged that they would at least bear with me for some few days, and not demand precipitately what they were imposing as a thing full of difficulties. Wherefore there befell me the lot of Proteus, who, what he would not by his own will disclose, being bound with fetters was compelled to set free. Yet this seemed therein tolerable, because I was being pressed to speak of such a matter as, if (God favouring) it be truly expressed, both deservedly refreshes the hearer and illumines the understanding of one who persuades well.

Wherefore, before I enter upon the thing sought, I must first cut away the likenesses of names, like obstructing branches, lest the path of our discussion seem to be overgrown with the shadowy images of words that sound alike. The soul (anima), then, is properly said of man, and not also of beasts, since their life is known to consist in the blood. But this soul, since it is immortal, is rightly called anima, as it were anema, that is, far separated from the blood (a sanguine), seeing that even after the body's death its substance abides perfect, as is declared in due place in what follows. Others, however, say it is called anima because it animates and quickens the substance of its own body.

But 'mind-spirit' (animus) is so called from apo tou anemou, that is, from wind, because its swift thought ranges about with rapid motion after the likeness of wind. And it arises stirred up out of the soul's appetite according to the quality of its desire. 'Mind' (mens), however, is so called from mene, that is, from the moon, which, although it is changed by varied alternation, yet restores itself to that which it was with a certain perfect newness; for now worn thin by tribulations, as if it were tested in darkness, now again it is renewed into its natural vigour as gladness returns. The 'spirit' (spiritus), then, is spoken of in a threefold manner. For there is truly and properly called Spirit that which lacks nothing, while it is itself lacked by all creatures; breathing in what it wills and dispensing all things as it wills;

filling all things, whole in the whole, immovable in place and eternal in will, and singularly powerful over all things that are highest. We also call spirit a substance that is fine and invisible to us, created, immortal, having such power as has been profitably given to it. Thirdly, we call spirit that which is sent forth and received throughout the whole body, by which the life of mortals is necessarily held together by breath, and never taking rest, is renewed by continual motion. And therefore it must be known that 'mind-spirit' (animus) and 'mind' (mens) are not properly called soul (anima); but because these things excel in the soul, they are sometimes so called by license.

Nor indeed is spirit set down distinctly in place of soul, because this name is common to it with others, that is, with angels, the powers of the air, and whatever things are held together by spirit. Nor can that spirit truly be called soul which is dissolved by the alternation of air, since this thing is common to it with the beasts. It remains, then, that separately and significantly the soul of man be called a spiritual substance which is in no way consumed by the pouring out of blood. Now let us discourse more freely concerning the substance of the soul itself, since we have separated it by a necessary distinction from the likeness of names.

Wherefore let us first, with most cautious deliberation, frame a definition pregnant with content, so that the consequences which may be born from it may very easily be recognized by the faithfulness of their kind. The masters of secular letters say that the soul is a simple substance, a natural form, distinct from the matter of its body, the instrument of the members, and possessing the virtue of life. But the soul of man is, as the authority of truthful teachers agrees, a spiritual and proper substance created by God, the quickener of its own body, rational indeed and immortal, yet convertible to good and to evil. It has been brought forth like an egg ready to give birth, wherein is contained the life of the future bird and the pleasing variety of its feathers.

Now let it be opened into its parts, since it is the custom of men to learn more easily those things which, divided, can shine forth more evidently. That souls are made or have been made by God, none of the prudent is ignorant, since everything that exists is either creator or creature. No created substance, therefore, can be a creatrix, since, in order that it may itself subsist, it needs God, and cannot give to another that subsistence which it received only that it might possess it. It remains that we most truly confess it to have been founded by the Divinity, who alone can create things mortal and immortal. For it is plainly read in Solomon: 'and the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it'; and elsewhere: 'I have made every breath.'

This spiritual substance, accordingly, probable and conclusive reason confesses, because, since we know that all corporeal things are contained by three dimensions—length, breadth, depth—nothing of the kind is proved to be found in the soul. Then, because, associated with the body, although weighed down by its mass, it weighs the opinions of things with anxious curiosity, ponders heavenly things profoundly, traces out natural things by subtle investigation, and desires to know even the difficult things concerning its own Creator. But if it were corporeal, it would by no means discern or see spiritual things by its thoughts.

Let the suspicion of its corporeality cease, then, since it both renders the definition of body in every way foreign to itself, and seeks out such causes as only the sublime spirit strives to attain. Hence it is that by the holy Scriptures it is most justly admonished to despise all the visible things of this world; for it is itself incorporeal, that it may fittingly tend toward spiritual things, to which it recognizes itself to be formed like. Its substance is altogether its own, since no other spirit takes on flesh so as to either suffer with it or rejoice in its passions. But as for what we said, 'the quickener of its own body'—it is because, as soon as it has been given, by an unspeakable condition it loves its own prison, it loves that on account of which it cannot be free.

It is vehemently affected by the body's pains; it dreads destruction, though it cannot die; and it is so anxious at the calamities of its own body that you would believe it rather to be enduring the last extremities—it, which cannot perish by nature. It enjoys also the most healthful tempering of the flesh, it feeds on the gazing of the eyes, it is delighted by sonorous hearings, it is gladdened by the sweetest odours, it is soothed by the necessary banqueting of taste; and although it by no means itself feeds on these things, yet when such things are withdrawn it is consumed with the heaviest grief, desiring not the things naturally suited to itself but those that are profitable to the joined limbs. Hence sometimes vices contrary to reason steal upon it, when the soul, by too indulgently yielding to the beloved body, is known to give place to sin.

The life of the body, therefore, is the presence of the soul it has received; but its death is proved to be the soul's departure. So we call it 'day' when the sun gives light, which, when it has departed, is called night. The body lives, then, by the protection of the soul, and is proved to receive from it that whereby it has power to move itself. But since this too is known to pertain to the kind of life of which we speak, it must be known that, when that fiery vigour has poured itself into the parts of the body and the vital spirit has breathed upon the carnal matter, if perchance it receives some wound, it at once feels the pain, because it is substantially inserted everywhere. But if its virtue and heat only animated, a cut finger could not feel pain—just as the sun is proved to feel nothing if you attempt to cut its rays.

It is, therefore, whole in its parts, nor is it lesser in one place and greater in another, but in one place more intently, in another more remissly, where nevertheless it is extended with vital intention. It gathers its members into one and joins them together; it does not suffer to flow away or waste those things which it guards with vital vigour; everywhere it distributes fitting nourishments, preserving in them congruity and measure. Moreover it seems marvellous that an incorporeal thing should be bound to the most solid members, and that natures so distant should have been brought into one harmony, so that the soul can neither separate itself when it wills, nor retain itself when it has recognized the Creator's command. All things are shut to it when it is bidden to dwell within; all things are rendered open when it is commanded to go forth.

For if the bitter pain of a wound be inflicted, it is not let go without the Author's command, just as it is not kept without His gift. Hence it is that we often see those gravely wounded escape, and again perish from slight occasions. But that reason is in man, who can doubt? since he treats of divine things, is wise in human things, is taught by excellent arts, is instructed in distinguished disciplines, and herein fittingly excels the other animals, in that comely reason composes him. But by reason I mean a probable motion of the mind, which through those things that are granted and known leads to something unknown, arriving at the secret of truth. This, by conjectures and arguments, longs to hasten to that which it recognizes to be in the nature of things.

For that alone is to be called true and pure and certain reason which is rendered foreign to every image of falsehood. It is given to the soul, then, in a manner to apprehend its own thoughts and, through the obedience of the tongue, to set them forth with voluble motion. Placed in the body, how many things the soul sees; not going out of itself, how diverse the things it looks round upon; everywhere it is as it were stretched out, and yet no departure of the soul is proved to occur. It is moved, it is raised up, it is known to fluctuate, and within itself, as if running through a great space, it ranges about. This does not go out to its objects, but by its own dealings represents to itself what it may regard by its own thought; now what it has seen with bodily eyes, now what it has conceived by fantastic imagination. It clearly thinks one thing at a time, just as it also speaks;

by an order it accomplishes nothing of sense when it confounds itself with diversity, because it is proper to the Divinity to arrange many things and to unfold all things at once with fitting measures. Endowed, then, with the bounty of reason, how many good things has it found by the gift of the Divinity: it has discovered the forms of letters, it has brought forth the uses and disciplines of the various arts, it has girt cities with a defensible wall, it has produced garments of varied kind, by industry it requires better fruits from the lands, it crosses the deeps in a winged ship, it has bored through vast mountains for the use of travellers, it has enclosed harbours for the benefit of seafarers by lunar arrangement, it has adorned the earth with a most beautiful arrangement of buildings.

Who now would doubt of its reason, when, illumined by its Author, it causes to be beheld by art that which ought to be praised with all solemnity? It is now fitting to discourse of its immortality. The authors of secular letters have proved souls immortal in manifold ways, saying: if everything that quickens another lives in itself, but the soul, since it quickens the body, lives in itself—surely it is immortal. They say also: all immortal things are simple; but the soul is not a harmony, nor does it consist of many things, but is a simple nature; the soul, therefore, is immortal. And again they propose: whatever is not corrupted by an original contrariety perseveres perpetually immortal;

the soul indeed, since it is simple and pure, is without doubt immortal. They add also: if everything rational that moves itself is immortal; but the rational soul moves itself; therefore it is immortal. We, however, easily prove souls to be immortal by truthful readings; for since we read that they were made to the image and likeness of their Author, who would dare against holy authority to call them mortal, so as rather to assert shamelessly that they differ from the likeness of their Creator? For how could there be an image or likeness of God, if the souls of men were shut up by the boundary of death? For He, ineffably ever-living, ineffably ever-abiding, Himself keeping perpetuity;

who contains all things, disposes all things, is without doubt able, being immortal, to make immortal things and to give a fitting measure of life according to His own measure. Someone says: how am I like to God, since I am not at all able to create immortal things? To whom we judge it must be answered thus by some comparison. Can a picture, which is like to us, imitate the things we make? For an image can have some likeness, but cannot fulfil that which the reality does. For from this too we ought to recognize the soul as immortal, in that it longs to think of eternity. For it desires, after the death of the body, to leave the fame of its own name; it longs to be praised without end; and a good conscience is the more anxious about future things, lest its reputation be stained by posterity.

Hence it is established among the more sublime authors that whatever is raised up by the dignity of reason is not pressed down by the injury of death. Add that truth absolutely professes that it will give perpetual torment to the wicked and perpetual joys to the good, so that it is not lawful to receive with hesitation that which the divinity of the Omnipotent deigns to promise. But this immortality of the soul we ought not so to understand as one that admits no suffering. For it is liable to mutability and open to griefs, yet nevertheless amid whatever weariness or anxieties it perseveres by the benefit of continuance. But God alone is singularly immortal, singularly just, singularly powerful, singularly good, singularly holy.

For although these things, or things like to them, are said to be in men or angels, yet none of them attain to the height of His reverend power. For all the lofty virtues are in that summit most fully and most perfectly, which by His bounty are granted to all creatures according to their own measure. Now it must be known in what manner this immortal soul is perceived to live on. It lives in itself after the loss of this present age, not by the spirit breathing back as in the body, but by an equal mobility which has been attributed to it: pure, subtle, swift, eternal, it sees, it hears, it touches, and prevails more efficaciously by the remaining senses; no longer understanding these things from its parts, but knowing all things spiritually from the whole.

Otherwise it is absurd to think that it can do less when free than when burdened by the mass of the most brutish body. For there is no doubt that angels and the powers of the air, or the other things known to consist of a sublime and immortal substance, are able to understand such things. It remains that we now teach it to be subject to mobility in due order. But who would doubt that we are now uplifted by joy, now cast down by grief, now mild by piety, now terrible by indignation, now raising our minds to virtues, now again declining to vices? Some things we tenaciously take up, others we reject by forgetfulness; what now pleases, afterward displeases.

We are edified also by the discourses of the good, we are destroyed by the conversation of the wicked, and as much as we profit with the upright, so much do we know ourselves to become worse with the worst. For if one rigour, one purpose held us, we should be made neither good out of evil, nor blessed out of the wicked, by the benefit of mutability. But that the cause of this variety may be more evidently recognized, let us recall, as has been said, that prudence has not been bestowed on us as unchangeable; and therefore we are wise when by divine illumination we act well, and again we are foolish when we are blinded by darkening transgressions. For an affection that comes and recedes is always uncertain.

God alone is omnipotent, for whom to be is the same as to be wise, to be able the same as to live, to will the same as to do; and rightly, since all things that are truly good do not come to Him but proceed from Him. Wherefore this origin of the soul, of which we have spoken, is not to be understood as a part of God, as certain madmen have thought with irreligious will, because it is convertible; nor as of the angels, because it is associable with flesh; nor from air, nor from water, nor from earth, nor from those things which are joined by mutual embrace;

but a simple and proper nature, a substance distinct from other spirits, which we ought to mark as far subtler and more luminous than air, since we behold the latter commonly, but cannot, by the condition of the flesh, behold the former. This species a natural mobility ever stirs up to unfold its thoughts agreeably. Hence it is that, relaxed through rest, when the matter of our accustomed thought has been withdrawn from us, and we are not intent in the customary manner upon daily actions, we dream of various things, now by false, now by true visions. It is a small thing that, with our senses lulled to sleep, we are deluded by flighty imagination, when frequently even waking we are led away from our contemplation.

For often, when we direct ourselves in prayer with great intention, by I know not what sport we are suddenly removed by thoughts breathed in upon us, and so it comes about that something adverse is suggested to the mind which we had not purposed. It is established, therefore, that the soul is turned about in this world by an unstable and variable will, and is capable of losing and receiving good things, and does not always subsist by one rigour of its will, but even against its own disposition changes itself by manifold conversion. Nor are we of those who say that souls rather recollect than learn the usual arts and the other disciplines, since they are both prepared for the questions asked, where they can attain by reaching understanding, and so hear new things as if they had learned nothing of them before.

Behold, that pregnant definition is now delivered of its offspring; behold, the things that were shut up have burst forth into the light (unless I am mistaken). Nothing of the proposed framework has been left out, whose method is such that it so unfolds and determines what it intends, that it may seem to have said neither less nor more. Now let us approach with anxious senses the substantial quality of the soul, which you remember holds the third place of your questioning. The authors said that the quality of this substance is fiery, for the reason that it is ever quickened by a mobile ardour, and, joined to the body, quickens the members by its heat.

Then, because all heavenly things, they report, consist of a flaming vigour—not this smoky, consumable, and temporal flame, but one from a tranquil nourisher and immortal. This neither diminishes nor grows, but perseveres perpetually in the dignity of the origin it received. And it cannot be brought to an end, because it is not, like some body, compacted of a diversity of elements. For being one and simple, it knows not to have anything adverse, and therefore always abides, since in its essence it has no strife. So they say that all things created are immortal to which a spiritual substance has been granted.

But we, not unfittingly, would rather say that the soul is light, on account of the image of God, which it is recorded fittingly to have received among the conditions of things, as much as was necessary for it according to its measure. For God Himself, the Omnipotent, alone has immortality and dwells in inaccessible light, which beyond all brightnesses or wonders the soundness of mind understands; but the image has some likeness; nevertheless this light cannot have that which the reality does. But that which we revere as an ineffable mystery, which is everywhere whole and invisibly present, is the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit;

one essence and undivided majesty, splendour above all brightnesses, glory above all proclamation, which a most pure mind devoted to God can indeed in some part perceive, but is not able adequately to set forth. For how is it lawful to speak sufficiently of Him who cannot be comprehended by the sense of a creature? Let us, though by excessive piety, go beyond the measure of our soul, and with immense religion be silent above our very selves by lofty thought. Let us pass beyond also the powers of the heavenly creatures, and profoundly treat of who He is that made things so great by one command, in one moment; yet whatever we marvel at is greater, whatever we perceive is more exalted, while the human mind does not penetrate to that unsearchable majesty.

The one way, therefore, of regarding this power is to venerate that which is unsearchable, not to inquire definitively what and how great He is. Instructed, then, by these things, we seem not unfittingly to mark that souls have some substantial light, since in the Gospel it is read: 'the light which lighteneth every man that cometh into this world.' Then, because, placed in thought, we feel something fine, voluble, clear within us, which looks without the sun, which sees without an external light. For if it were not itself luminous in itself, it would not have such great power of beholding things. These things are not given to the dark; all blind things grow torpid. For the lights of this soul are so violent that they even behold things absent.

These lights, nevertheless, are then made far clearer and unchangeable, when by the grace of God they do not depart from good acts. For by their speculative virtue it is most certain, by experience itself, that many and difficult things which are hidden away in the secret of nature are inspected and comprehended. Now let us inspect whether the soul is believed to have forms, which we have already said are incorporeal. First it is fitting to know, by the definition of our elders, the most truthful framework of form itself. By form I mean that which encloses some space by a line or lines, and so it is easily given to be understood whether souls can receive it, which it is certain subsist by a spiritual vigour.

For since every form is either in a surface or in a body—surface only in a body, and body indeed solid and palpable—but it is established that the soul is manifestly excepted from these things, it remains that souls must be thought in no way to have forms, but to abide unfigured and incorporeal in their own quality. Nor let this move us, that the Apostle says of Christ the Lord: 'who, when He was in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God,' and the rest; for there he wishes 'nature' to be understood. But otherwise, what form could the incorporeal God have, who is everywhere whole and incomprehensible?

But that which is read in the Gospel—that after the setting of this light, Lazarus in his want was received into the bosom of Abraham, but the rich man, burning and boiling in the scorching flames, begged for a drop whereby his burning might be tempered—is to be understood as set down so that the ruinous presumption of the human race regarding things might recognize what it ought to have dreaded. But neither did that one speak with a tongue, which is established to be corporeal, nor did this one have fingers whereby he might have tempered the rich man's burning with falling drops. For the other things contained in like reading are to be received in this manner. For it is a small matter that these things are recorded of this creature for the instruction of the custom of the human race.

We read also that the Author Himself—impassible, immutable, abiding perpetually in one mode—rages, and we have often heard that He slumbers; not that such things can befit the Lord, but that some things may more easily and compendiously be known from human custom. So we read that souls, formless to us, frequently take on forms. It is also wont to disturb some, if the soul has no quantity, since it is established to be contained within the body of man; but if we recall to the midst the most truthful definition of quantity, which always briefly resolves single things, the proved truth easily shines forth for us. For thus the arithmeticians describe it with compendious truth:

every quantity consists either of continuous things, as a tree, a man, a mountain, or of disjoined things, as a chorus, a people, or a heap, and the like. But since the soul is neither of continuous nor of disjoined things, because it is not a body, it is clear that it has no quantity at all; but wherever it is, it neither receives form nor is to be said by us to have any quantity. Yet it is to be believed that their circumstances and quantities can lie open to the Creator, because He created all things by measure, number, and weight, and they are truly known to Him alone who made them—who by His marvellous power beholds even our very thoughts as if they were visible things, who hears the blood of the innocent crying out; and finally, who knows all things even before they come to be.

It is time to come to the moral virtues, which are riches to be sought after and truly the precious wealth of souls, which the Greeks call aretai, by which a good conscience strives against bodily uncleanness to vindicate its own purity. First, against the depraved or the iniquitous, the bulwark of justice is set in opposition, whose framework, as the ancients wished to define it, is known to be such. Justice is a habit of mind, preserved for the common benefit, assigning to each his own dignity. Against confused and uncertain things, prudence is usefully applied. But prudence is the true knowledge of good and evil things. Against adverse or prosperous things, fortitude is set as a remedy.

But fortitude is the considered undertaking of dangers and the firm endurance of labours. Against unlawful delights, therefore, and fervid pleasures, temperance, our governess, comes to our aid. Temperance indeed is the firm and moderate mastery over lust and the other not-right impulses of the mind. By these fortifications, then, granted by divine help, girt about as it were with a fourfold breastplate, the salvation of the soul is guarded in this death-bearing world, nor can it be approached by vices, which has merited to be walled with so great a defence. But this fourfold ornament of the virtues is completed by a threefold part (so to speak). The first is contemplation, which extends the keen edge of our mind to behold the subtlest things.

The second is judicial, which handles the discernment of good and evil by rational estimation. The third is memory, when things inspected and deliberated are stored up in the inner recesses of the mind by faithful commendation, so that, as in a kind of receptacle, we may take in what we drink down by frequent meditation. Our wardrobes, when they have been filled, hold nothing; this treasury is not burdened by being loaded, but, when it has stored away many things, by the desire of knowing requires the more. We have touched the aforesaid parts as a three-stringed harmony: for in such a number the soul delights; in it the Divinity is known to rejoice. Some are wont to raise most subtle questions, saying:

if the Divinity creates perfect and rational souls, why do infants live with sense scarcely placed in them, or why are youths found to be witless? But who would not consider that the souls of little ones, by the weakness of the body, can explicate neither the offices of the senses nor the ministries of the members? as, if you shut up fire in a narrow vessel, it cannot, as is its manner, seek the heights, because a most close obstacle is established to cover it. For then the faculty of each thing seems to suffice for it, when nothing contrary prevails to impede it.

Thus there befalls foolish young men this: that whether through a disproportion of parts or through a thickness of humours, a defect having been contracted from the fault of the maternal womb, the soul, hampered by too unfit a dwelling, is weighed down and cannot exercise its own power, being obstructed by the seat of an unsuitable abode. This we see happening even today to the foolish, whom the Greeks call 'niniones.' For to speak also of a common occurrence: how many, when illnesses come upon them, whether through an overburdened brain or through a numbness of the inward parts, have, being confounded, lost the keenness of their accustomed wisdom? How many, indeed, have been altered by a momentary injury?

For even he who is reputed most renowned for wisdom, when stuffed with a sumptuous meal, how easily, sliding into drunkenness, is he dulled, so that you would scarcely believe him alive—much less the man who but lately discoursed most prudently—when you see him unable even to move himself. Yet one thing I know most certainly: that the wise are made exceedingly blessed who, by the mercy of the Lord, are rendered strangers to such adversities. Perhaps there are also other causes which seem to go against the rational soul in unfolding its proper motions. For the rest, souls neither grow with little children, nor are different souls assigned to fools by some varied distribution; but just as they continually receive immortality, so too they are generally held to be rational. For in little children it is the reason that grows by long reflection, not the soul.

Now let us pass on in due order to the remaining matters. The ancients held that the natural powers of the soul are fivefold. The first is the sensitive, present in both parts, which bestows on us the sense of understanding, by which we perceive all incorporeal things through varied imagination. It also makes the bodily senses vigorous—that is, sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch, by which we perceive things hard and soft, smooth and rough. The second is the imperative, which commands the bodily organs to perform the various motions it has decreed to be carried out—that is, to be moved from place to place, to utter sounds, to bend the limbs. These things we have set down by way of example, that in these we may be seen to have spoken of like matters.

The third, the principal power: when, withdrawn from all activity, we are set at leisure and, the bodily senses being at rest, we treat something more profoundly and more firmly. Hence it is that those mature in age are judged to understand better, because, as their limbs grow old and their bodily senses are softened, they pass for the most part into counsel. Here, while the mind is the more occupied, it becomes the stronger in the power of concentration; but again they lose their wits when they are laid low by excessive weakness, since it has been granted to souls to follow, for a time, the necessities of their bodies. The fourth, the vital power—that is, the natural heat of the soul, which, by reason of its fervour that must be tempered, or by drawing in and giving back the airs of the ether, grants us life and health.

The fifth, delight—that is, the appetite for good and evil, which the soul desires under the form of pleasantness. Behold, again, this part is dispersed by a fourfold subdivision for the purpose of sustaining the body. The first is the attractive, seizing from nature what it perceives to be necessary to itself. The second, the retentive, holding fast what it has taken until from these a useful concoction is brought about. The third, the transformative, which converts and transposes what has been received into something else. The fourth, the expulsive, which drives off from itself, that nature may become free, the things that would harm it. We have loosed, as was granted, as it were another knot; we have bent down, as it were, a sixth hill, that, the summit of difficulty being leveled, we may proceed unhindered to the rest.

Now let us come most cautiously to the origin of the soul, since it is full of difficulties. We read that in the creation of things the body was forthwith made from the slime of the earth, and that straightway the Lord breathed in, and Adam was made into a living soul. For it is said that He 'breathed in' to express the dignity of the work, that something extraordinary might be recognized which was brought forth by His mouth. Yet His 'breathing in' signifies nothing other than His command and His bidding. For how can He breathe in who neither releases breath nor has cheeks, which are agreed to be corporeal? Following this, some have said that as soon as the human seed has been coagulated into a vital substance, souls are at once created and given to the bodies, distinct and complete.

But those skilled in the art of healing say that the human and mortal creature receives a soul on the fortieth day, when it begins to move itself in the mother's womb. It is also reported, by the opinion of certain men, that that most powerful Creator, just as from our body He brings forth the seed of the flesh, so too from the quality of the soul a new soul can be generated—insofar as the creature can be shown guilty of that original sin which the Catholic Church confesses, through the transmission of the offense, unless it has been absolved by the gift of baptism. For how should an infant, who has no will to sin, be found in any way guilty, unless by some reasoning guilt is seen to have been poured over into the very origin of souls?

Hence father Augustine, to be praised for his most reverent doubting, says that nothing should be rashly affirmed, but that it lies in His secret, just as there are many other things which our mediocrity cannot know. Yet this must be believed truly and steadfastly: both that God creates souls, and that by some hidden reason He most justly imputes to them that they are held liable by the sin of the first man. For it is better, in causes so hidden, to confess ignorance than perhaps to assume a dangerous boldness, since the Apostle says: 'For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been His counselor?' And again: 'We know in part, and we prophesy in part.'

But since the thread of our discussion has led us to this point—that we should say souls are generally guilty through the transmission of sin—it is fitting to bring forward into the midst the soul of Christ the Lord, lest anyone, perverted by a slanderous intent, should think it bound by a like condition. Let us hear, then, that His origin was prophesied to holy Mary, ever-virgin, by a worthy herald. The angel says: 'The Holy Spirit shall come upon you, and the power of the Most High shall overshadow you. Therefore that which shall be born of you shall be called holy, the Son of God.' Who, I ask, in this majesty of birth, would believe there to be the guilt of original sin, or would suspect any profane offense of the flesh? Without doubt He came without sin, who was about to loose the sins of all.

Conceived by a mystical inbreathing, born of a virgin, He drew nothing from Adam, He who came that the evil of Adam might be overcome. That longest rope by which we were bound has been broken. The torrent that was sweeping us away has there been dried up. Death lost its rights, when our condition received the life of the Redeemer. For the first man transmitted destruction to his posterity; Christ the Lord, coming, conferred the kingdom of heaven upon believers. For through Him He restores the lost state who through that other one had lost his merit. Born in glory, having lived without stain, what could He draw from that one whom He came by a contrary action to destroy? To a holy origin a holy life responded. He who was begotten without sin was overcome by no defilement of the world.

Nature, not vices, took up the true man. He rejected what the first-formed man transgressed in, and assumed the most pure man whom He had created—not receiving sin, but taking on the flesh of sin without any injury of pollution. Sweet indeed, exceedingly, has this digression become to me, while I strive to remove wicked suspicions; but while we tend toward another matter, we cannot say many things here. It now remains that, pursuing the order and our purpose, we ought to speak of the seat of the soul. Some have held the seat of the soul to be in the heart, though it is diffused through the whole body, saying that there the purest blood and the vital spirit are contained, so that they affirm that thence also thoughts, whether evil or good, go forth;

and there is no doubt that the soul can effect its power there. But very many declare that it resides in the head—if it is permitted to say so, yet with reverence—after some likeness of the divinity, which, though it fills all things with its ineffable substance, Scripture nevertheless affirms to dwell in the heavens. For it was worthy that she should seek the citadel, who knew herself to be sublime by a heavenly working, and that she should dwell in such a place above the rest, from whence the remaining members ought to be governed by a fitting rule. For the very shape of the head, spheroid, is most beautiful, in which the immortal and rational soul might make for itself a worthy dwelling. Let us, to be sure, consider bodily things.

This mortal fire ever tends toward the heights, and that which has a most subtle nature hastens without doubt to the upper regions. There are also certain proofs of this belief. For when those most skilled in healing strive to restore to its former soundness the shell of the human skull, shattered by a most grievous blow, they frequently touch the membrane by which the tenderness of the brain is protected, when they desire to wipe it clean of bloody dregs. As soon as it is touched, the man comes into such a stupor that, even if struck severely elsewhere, he cannot feel it. But soon, as the hand lifts itself again from the pressure on the brain, he returns to his accustomed understanding, recovering voice and sensation, and recognizes what is now being done to himself.

This is not proven to happen in the other members, even though they be hollowed out with the pits of enormous wounds. It is added, moreover, that even to a sound body there come, pertaining to this matter, no small signs. For when someone has been inflamed with excessive indignation and has kindled his mind with the heat of thought, he is not troubled by a surging of the inward parts, nor by a commotion of the breast, but is straightway struck with pain of the head, so that there the soul seems to have left signs of its fatigue, where it was seen to strive with great power. There too we absolutely perceive certain surges of our soul, certain greater impulses, so that things which, being absent, no one is ignorant of, come before our eyes.

We do indeed direct the vigor of the mind into diverse quarters and many regions, and by fantastic imagination it is led to the judgment-seat of our head, which is recognized as having sought out things through the diverse parts of the world. Finally, when we are deep in thought, we fix our eyes altogether, the sense of the ears is stopped up, taste ceases, the nostrils are idle, the tongue has no voice; and in many ways, by such signs, the soul is recognized to be occupied, as it were, in its own chambers. This soul, then, as is supposed, set on high as though sitting upon a tribunal, is known to be the governess of its desires, the judge of good and evil, discerning ambiguous things, rejecting harmful ones—provided, however, that the grace of the divinity has shone upon it.

There was indeed in the first man a natural blessedness, possessed of free will and an inviolate judgment; but, deceived by an unhappy transgression, losing through diabolical fraud what he had received to hand on to posterity, he could not transmit to us what he had lost. Thence came propagated destruction, thence the nourished decline of the human race, thence ignorance contrary to reason, thence harmful cares, thence counsels to be repented of, thence darkened knowledge, base desire, neglect of justice; thence a thousand falls into crimes, and many things common to us with the beasts, which the divinity had made to be distinct.

For—alas the grief!—the departure of the sun alone foretells to us the coming of fair weather; by the commotion of the winds we discern coming storms; by reason we gather the coming abundance of seasons for the ages; sometimes, by the foreboding of an unknowing mind, we promise ourselves gladness. But what such thing could the soul have been ignorant of, if its dignity had been preserved? Justly has it been pressed down into ignorance, it which willfully wished to know things forbidden. For now it knows certain things by signs or conjectures, things which it could have known, all of them, without labor. Yet that thing, purified by holy conduct, it recovers by the help of the divinity, which it lost by the snares of the deceiver; illumined, it sees from its Creator what, darkened, it cannot know of itself.

It has been related how great are the things proven to have been granted to the soul; but it is fitting that we also speak of its temple, since that image of God does not suffer to be seen joined to a deformed body. A tall creature, raised up into the likeness of most beautiful contemplation, to behold things supernal and rational, whose harmonious arrangement declares to us mighty mysteries. First of all, our head, framed of six bones in the likeness of the heavenly sphere, is fashioned with a round concavity, so that the seat of our brain—in whose organ we have understanding—might contain that most perfect number, six.

Hence the eyes, like two most beautiful volumes of the sacred testaments, are placed; after whose likeness all things in us descend combined in pairs: as ears, nostrils, lips, arms, sides, legs, shins, feet. For in this mystical duality the framework of the whole body is contained; and just as those testaments look toward one, savor of one, so these offices join themselves together into one harmony and operation. But although this most beautiful symmetry associates itself by distribution and lends to each other their mutual adornment, there are also single things set in the middle, lest, inclining prejudicially to one side, they should strip the other of its fitting grace:

the nose, the mouth, the throat, the breast, the navel, and the descending rod of the genitals, which are shown to be praiseworthy and honorable when they stand placed in the middle. But to our head, which receives all the senses, the neck is rightly set under as a kind of pillar, teaching us that holy religion consists in one most strong firmness of faith. The tongue too, the most fitting plectrum of our voice, was given to temper the fitness of our words, so that articulate words might distinguish us from the confusion of the animals.

Nor should it seem in vain that two digestions serve the one throat—namely, that all the understanding of the prudent soul, like food received and cooked by the heat of reason, might be unfolded through the twin paths of the testaments in fitting treatises. And since the form of the human body cannot defend itself either by horn, by tooth, or by flight, as do other animals, a sturdy chest and arms were granted to it, that it might ward off injury inflicted with the hand, and protect itself by the interposition of the breast as by a kind of shield. But who would doubt that our genitals were assigned to a great mystery?

Whence, by God's bestowal, the fruitful renewal of man proceeds; whence mortals know no failing, since, while individual persons perish, the race is known to be able to be preserved continuous. A comely member it would be, had it not been defiled by base lust. For what would be more precious than it, if from it the human race descended without fault? Thus all things were created worthy of proclamation, were they not rendered obscene by polluting sins. But this animated body is administered and ruled by five senses, which, though they are common with the beasts, are nevertheless better distinguished and fulfilled by us through rational judgment. The first of them is sight, which, the air being illumined, beholds bodily colors and recognizes in them their proper qualities.

For sight, as the ancients preferred to define it, is a power of the spiritual soul, going forth through the pupil of the eye, reaching things not so very distant, but judging those to which it can attain, seeing that for which it is appointed to see. For if the eyes could see of their own interior parts, they would without doubt also behold themselves. This too father Augustine perceived. The second is hearing, which by the hollow and spiral ears receives sounds, the resounding strikings of the air, judging by reason what has been heard. The third is smell, which, taking in diverse odors, weighs the power of fragrant bodies—as by a kind of invisible smoke received into the nostrils—by a fitting inhalation.

The fourth is taste, by which we recognize the savor of many things through the judgment of the palate. The fifth is touch, which is known to be assigned in common to all the members as well. More elegant for us is that which is in the hands, which were given uniquely to unfold in common our many thoughts. For through them comes the other and firmer memory; for what we can forget, we retain without labor by these writing for us. These are the craftsmen of the diverse arts and the effecting of almost all our operation. For what would it profit the sense to conceive things to be done, if this laborious hand were not proven to fulfill them?

Nor do I think this should be passed over: that our feet and hands are formed with the tenfold number of fingers and toes, so that the course of our life and our work might contain the sacraments of the heavenly Decalogue, lest beyond the law of the Lord we should either think or do anything. The face itself—how it lays open the signs of its prudence! Into our countenance go forth hidden thoughts, and from this side it is recognized what manner of mind and will is stirring within. Indeed our countenance, which takes its name from the will, is a kind of mirror of its own soul, and what is not substantially discerned is most evidently declared through its bearing. How many things could be said of its remaining members?

Why is the row of our gums studded with thirty-two teeth? Why is our neck bound by seven knots, and the spine by twenty-three vertebrae? Why do the ribs bend in twenty-four spokes for the defense of the inward parts, lest that tenderness of the entrails be most easily harmed by importunate injury? With how fitting a dispersion do the sinews hold together the whole body! How do the veins suitably irrigate the members with nourishing blood! How do the marrow-filled bones strengthen us! Why is it common to our nails to grow continually together with the hair? How becomingly, how usefully, does the skin clothe our flesh, that neither the inner moisture should shamefully flow out, nor the beauty of complexion, its comeliness withdrawn, should perish!

But although the individual members seem to furnish diverse offices to the body—one being sublime to us, another middling, another set in the lowest place—they have come together into so great a grace of conjunction that all are necessary, all are proven suitable, just as the Apostle says, when he was uniting the Church of God by the zeal of charity: 'The eye cannot say to the hand: I have no need of you. Or again the head to the feet: I do not desire your service. But much rather those members of the body which seem to be weaker are necessary; and those which we think to be the less honorable parts of the body, on these we bestow more abundant honor. For God has so tempered and distributed the body that the members should need one another's mutual help.'

But let this, said summarily on account of its excessive length, suffice abundantly: that no bodily creature was formed unto so great a signification of mysteries. For that which seemed fit to be joined to a rational soul ought to have been made by the highest counsel. O wondrous creature of the supreme Maker, who so arranged the lineaments of the human body that, had it not been burdened and weighed down by the sins of the first man, it would not have been stripped of its great gifts! For what manner of things did it deserve to have then, when free, which now, condemned, it is known to retain among so many goods?

Yet this flesh, although it is assailed by diverse vices and lies subject, mangled by many wounds, is nevertheless the very thing that sings the heavenly psaltery, that makes glorious martyrs, that, being visited, merited its own Creator, that received even the life-giving cross itself of the holy Redeemer; deservedly is it now believed to be destined to be spiritual, since even here, mortal, it glories in having performed so great an office. For thus this great nature indeed, but, by reason of the original offense, liable to daily sins, by fastings, almsgivings, and assiduous prayers composes itself with divine support; thus, the filth of sins cleansed away, it prepares a luminous mind, that it may merit to receive its own Author—a temple of faith, which has not granted to crimes a lodging.

I believe it was provided by divine compassion that the body should be subjected to the soul, the soul to Him, and that the whole should look salutarily toward God its Creator. These things having been carried through which had to be said, it seems fitting to discourse on the signs and indications of souls, because, although their substance may seem to be one, they are nevertheless separated by far unequal qualities. And first I shall say how the habit and character of evil men are made manifest, insofar as those whom we cannot see within, we may judge by certain outward indications.

All souls, therefore, without right faith are most foul—as those of the philosophers, who follow not the law of the Creator but rather human error; and although they may seem to be teachers of morals and strive to scrub themselves clean upon the whetstones of the disciplines, they nevertheless do not escape the rust of superstition. For what madness is it to worship that than which one is better, and to believe that he can grant aid who cannot prevail to come to his own help? For it profits no one anything to have avoided harmful desires, not to have loved enervating luxury, to have fled deceiving falsehood, to have made oneself a stranger to earthly vices—because he who renders the Rewarder of all good things hostile to himself must needs labor in vain. For whose precepts will he obey, if he is ignorant of the Giver of the law?

He walks without a way, he looks without light, he thinks without taste, he runs with swift pace and yet does not find that to which he purposes to attain. These can flourish for the present, but are not proven to bring forth fruit, because their grace did not thrive in the root, but only vaunted itself in the ostentation of leaves. For those also are in the same case who, even if they believe rightly, are nevertheless polluted by foul crimes; since, when they bind themselves to grievous sins, they loose themselves from their Creator. Then the immortal soul becomes dead in its own darkness; it begins to love what perishes, it begins to hate what lives, it hates the virtues, it ever strives after vices, darkened in lamentable obscurity; it has not the purest reason, because it has plunged itself into the whirlpool of perversity;

soon, taken captive by the ancient enemy, it is driven headlong to vices, and through the enticements of the body he takes victories from its liability. For it is sick and ever anxious with sin; condemning itself, which no one accuses, so that deservedly a living death and a mortal life are said to have befallen such persons. If that Pitier shall have regarded this soul, and shall have deigned to illumine the eye of the mind blinded by bodily excesses, He draws it to liberating penitence, and grants the effect of escaping to that which at first seemed to have had the desire of perishing. Then it is happier, when it has wept; then loftier, when it has prostrated itself;

by tears it repairs what it had lost by rejoicing, and that which came to the enemy invited by pleasures, now, sorrowing most prosperously, hastens to the saving Lord. But although it is not lawful for men to behold them, nevertheless by evident indications they disclose their qualities, so that we may also notice those of whom we are not proven to have heard anything. For the evil, the countenance is clouded amid any bodily comeliness; sad even when they rejoice, they do that of which a little after they will repent. Deserted by the impulse of their pleasure, they suddenly return into sadness; the eyes are at times moved more than is needful.

And again, deep in thought, they are fixed, uncertain, wandering, fluctuating, fearful at everything, hanging upon the will of all, anxious with cares, restless with suspicions; they solicitously scrutinize others' judgments of themselves, because they have madly lost their own; by seeking life they incur the calamity of infernal death, and while they eagerly desire the temporal light, they acquire the darkness of perpetual night. They often leave their affairs unexplained, are transferred by a kind of leap to something else; though they do nothing, you would always reckon them occupied. They live in dread even when they are vexed by no one's pursuit.

Their conscience is their punishment, and they bear all things from themselves, though they suffer no grievous things from others; even their own odor is bitter to them, unless, while still surviving, they are seasoned with most sweet inhalations. For it is necessary that he be delighted by a foreign smell who is offended by his own. Let us come to the souls faithful to the Holy Trinity, which retain the preached apostolic discipline and, constant in a most glorious will, are truly proven to preserve the likeness of the supernal image. Of holy souls, then, even in this common life, the virtue is already great. For they subdue through quiet the flesh, that besieger of the human race; they are victors over themselves, while, by studying for conscience, they delight to inflict death upon the living body.

But woe to the flesh which here shall not have been overcome! For that which is conquered in this manner of life is there without doubt crowned. The man, in fine, steadfast, pure, harmless, praises all, ever accuses himself, and though he pleases all, to himself alone he is displeasing. For it is too great a thing to understand one's own littleness, nor can one know this except when divine things have already begun to lie open. These fly the more readily to things supernal, the more burdensomely they chastise themselves in human conduct. They command the body because they serve the Author, and while they recognize themselves to be small, they escape to the summit of great perfection. They desire to harm no one; harmed, they ever forgive; they bestow charity even on those who pursue them with wicked hatred.

Such souls, the Lord granting it, command even the harmful spirits, and those whom the world endures as hostile are overcome by a lesser creature. Still placed in the body, they are stronger than the evil angels; still set in the flesh, they give orders to the powers of the air; they do not yield to their temptations, but by divine virtue lord it over them. For these are properly to be called immortal, whom no penitence tortures, no grief afflicts, who cannot reckon to themselves the things by which they are proven to exist. By poverty they grow rich, in prisons they are glad, and amid these things rightly do secondary things obey them, because they ever follow the good.

Against persecutors they are ever raised up with the stronger boldness, since the end of light is to them the beginning of good things, and in eternal blessedness they receive what they performed in temporal conduct. Thus the souls of the saints, still tarrying in this world, although they be hard-pressed by the long adversity of their dwelling, nevertheless are seen to be fellow-citizens with the good angels, even in great part their consorts. For Moses opened an earthly path through the seas, traversed the dwellings of the waters with dry feet, and so great waves, as if built up on either side, stiffened with a strange solidity into the likeness of a rock.

Elijah merited that it should not rain, and obtained also that the longed-for shower should pour itself forth; and one man by blessed supplications accomplished what the whole multitude, when it was kept in suspense, did not merit to obtain. For to those who cleanse themselves by heavenly conduct, supernal power is granted by mercy, which man, by reason of the original defect, cannot have when he is created. Passing through the world, they are ever fixed to the Majesty, to whom mighty works are so assiduously furnished that they almost rightly cease to be miracles. Elisha opened the eyes of his disciple, who did not see the heavenly host, and struck the army of the enemy with blindness. Some have taken away conflagrations from the flames, and restored vital heat to cold corpses.

We read that fierce lions came together to bury a body, that crocodiles in turn carried men across like a raft, that liquid was changed into the hardness of flint, that streams were bidden to flow from the dryness of rocks, that live coals were carried with the garments unharmed; that the lame walked, and that the swiftest sun was commanded to stand still. By a human word the diversity of nature was wrought, and they were received into such great grace that the very thing which the world marveled to see serving its Author was able to serve them as well. And what shall we now say of the dominion of the voice, when even their garment, once touched, conferred the effect of healing, and the shadow of an apostle's body shut out the peril of death? Thus by the abundance of their merits one seemed to bring healing even through that which is known to have no substance.

Such a soul is plainly perceived even when its existence is not seen. Its countenance is ever cheerful and calm, strong in its leanness, adorned by its pallor, glad amid ceaseless tears, venerable with its flowing beard, most clean though without any adornment; thus through the justice of the mind men are made more beautiful by means of things that seem contrary. The eyes are glad and honorably gentle, the speech truth-telling, penetrating to good hearts, longing to persuade all men to that love of God of which it is full. The voice itself is moderate, neither feeble with a silence close at hand nor strong with shouting spread abroad; it is not broken by harshness, nor stirred by approaching joys; in manner and in face it is ever one and the same.

A holy temple, a dwelling-place of virtues, whose features cannot change since they are ever shown to be zealous for constancy. His steps too are seen to be neither slow nor swift; he looks upon no man for his own sake, spares no one for another's; an exhorter to what is right, teaching without arrogance, free yet with humility, strict yet with charity, so that it is as grievous to forsake him as it is unwilling to depart from life itself. A lover of the saving solitude where he is wounded by no lust, kindled by no contention, puffed up by no pride; he bears no envy toward his brothers, says to no one anything he might repent of, hears nothing absurd. The great throng of vices is conquered without a struggle when the pleasant solitude lends its aid.