 Book 9. Augustine determines to devote his life to God and to abandon his profession of rhetoric, quietly, however, retires to the country to prepare himself to receive the grace of baptism and is baptized with Olympias and his son, Edeodatus. At Ostia, on his way to Africa, his mother Monica dies in her 56th year, the 33rd of Augustine, her life and character. CHAPTER I O Lord, I am Thy servant, I am Thy servant and the son of Thy handmaid. Thou hast broken my bonds in thunder, I will offer to thee the sacrifice of praise. Let my heart and my tongue praise thee, yea, let all my bones say, O Lord, who is like unto thee? Let them say, and answer thou me, and say unto my soul, I am Thy salvation. Who am I, and what am I? What evil have not been either my deeds, or if my deeds, my words, or if not my words, my will? But thou, O Lord, art good and merciful, and Thy right hand had respect unto the depth of my death, and from the bottom of my heart emptied that abyss of corruption. And this Thy whole gift was, to nil what I willed, and to will what Thou willest. But where through all these years, and out of what low and deep recesses was my free will called forth in a moment, whereby to submit my neck unto Thy easy yoke, and my shoulders unto Thy light burden, O Christ Jesus, my helper and my redeemer. How sweet did it at once become to me, to want the sweetness of those toys, and what I feared to be parted from was now a joy to part with. For thou didst cast them forth from me, thou true and highest sweetness. Thou castest them forth, and for them entrest in thyself, sweeter than all pleasure, though not to flesh and blood, brighter than all light, but more hidden than all depths, higher than all honour, but not to the high in their own conceits. Nor was my soul free from the biting cares of canvassing and getting, and weltering in filth, and scratching off the itch of lust, and my infant tongue spake freely to thee, my brightness, and my riches, and my health, the Lord my God. Chapter 2 And I resolved in thy sight, not tumultuously to tear, but gently to withdraw the service of my tongue from the marts of lip labour, that the young, no students in thy law, nor in thy peace, but in lying dotages and lost skirmishes, should no longer buy at my mouth arms for their madness. And very seasonably it now wanted but very few days unto the vacation of the vintage, and I resolved to endure them, then in a regular way to take my leave, and having been purchased by thee, no more to return for sale. Our purpose then was to know thee, but to men, other than our own friends, it was not known. For we had agreed among ourselves not to let it out abroad to any, although to us, now ascending from the valley of tears, and singing that song of degrees, thou hest given sharp arrows, and destroying coals against the subtle tongue, which, as though advising us, would thwart, and would out of love devour us, as it doth its meat. Thou hest pierced our hearts with thy charity, and we carried thy words, as it were fixed in our entrails, and the examples of thy servants, whom for black thou hest made bright, and for dead, alive, being piled together in the receptacle of our thoughts, kindled and burned up that our heavy tupper, that we should not sink down to the abyss. And they fired us so vehemently, that all the blasts of subtle tongues from gainsayers might only inflame us the more fiercely, not extinguish us. Nevertheless, because for thy name's sake, which thou hest hallowed throughout the earth, this our vow and purpose might also find some to commend it, it seemed like ostentation not to wait for the vacation now so near, but to quit beforehand a public profession, which was before the eyes of all, so that all looking on this act of mine, and observing how near was the time of vintage, which I wished to anticipate, would talk much of me, as if I had desired to appear some great one. And what end had it served me, that people should repute and dispute upon my purpose, and that our good should be evil spoken of? Moreover it had at first troubled me, that in this very summer my lungs began to give way amid too great literary labor, and to breathe deeply with difficulty, and by the pain in my chest to show that they were injured, and to refuse any full or lengthened speaking. This had troubled me, for it almost constrained me of necessity to lay down that burden of teaching, or, if I could be cured and recover, at least to intermit it. But when the full wish for leisure, that I might see how that thou art the Lord arose, and was fixed in me. My God, thou knowest, I began even to rejoice that I had this secondary, and that no feigned excuse, which might something moderate the offence taken by those, who for their sons' sake wished me never to have the freedom of thy sons. For then of such joy I endured till the interval of time were run, it may have been some twenty days, yet they were endured manfully, endured for the covetousness which a foretime bore a part of this heavy business, had left me, and I remained alone, and had been overwhelmed, had not patience taken its place. Perchance some of thy servants, my brethren, may say, that I sinned in this, that with a heart fully set on thy service I suffered myself to sit even one hour in the chair of lies. Nor would I be contentious, but hest not thou, almost merciful Lord, pardoned and remitted this sin also, with my other most horrible and deadly sins in the holy water. CHAPTER III Vericundice was worn down with care about this our blessedness, for that being held back by bonds whereby he was most straightly bound he saw that he should be severed from us, for he was not yet a Christian, his wife one of the faithful, and yet hereby, more rigidly than any other chain, he was let and hindered from the journey which we had now assayed, for he would not, he said, be a Christian on any other terms than on those he could not. However, he offered us courteously to remain at his country-house so long as we should stay there. Thou, O Lord, shalt reward him in the resurrection of the just, seeing thou hest already given him the lot of the righteous. For although, in our absence, he being now at Rome, he was seized with bodily sickness, and therein being made a Christian, and one of the faithful, he departed this life. Yet hest thou not mercy, not only on him, but on us also, lest remembering the exceeding kindness of our friend towards us, yet unable to number him among thy flock, we should be agonized with intolerable sorrow. Thanks unto thee, our God, we are thine. Thy suggestions and consolations tell us Faithful impromises, thou now requittest vercondus for his country-house of Casiacum, where from the fever of the world we were posed in thee with the eternal freshness of thy paradise, for that thou hast forgiven him his sins upon earth in that rich mountain, that mountain which yieldeth milk, thine own mountain. He then had at that time sorrow but nebridious For although he also, not being yet a Christian, had fallen into the pit of that most pernicious air, believing the flesh of thy Son to be a phantom, yet emerging thence, he believed as we did, not as yet in dude with any sacraments of thy Church, but a most ardent searcher out of truth, whom, not long after our conversion and regeneration by thy baptism, being also a faithful member of the Church Catholic, and serving the imperfect chastity and continence amongst his people in Africa, his whole house having through him first been made Christian, didst thou release from the flesh, and now he lives in Abraham's bosom. Whatever that be which is signified by that bosom, there lives my nebridious, my sweet friend and thy child, O Lord, adopted of a freed man. There he liveth. For what other place is there for such a soul? There he liveth, whereof he asked much of me, a poor inexperienced man. Now lays he not his ear to my mouth, but his spiritual mouth unto thy fountain, and drinketh as much as he can receive, wisdom in proportion to his thirst, endless happy. Nor do I think that he is so inebriated therewith as to forget me, seeing thou, Lord, whom he drinketh, art mindful of us. So were we then, comforting Bercundus, who sorrowed, as far as friendship permitted, that our conversation was of such sort, and exhorting him to become faithful according to his measure, namely of a married estate, and awaiting nebridious to follow us, which being so near he was all but doing, and so, lo, those days rolled by at length, for the love I bear to the easeful liberty that I might sing to thee from my inmost morrow. My heart hath said unto thee, I have sought thy face, thy face, Lord, will I seek. CHAPTER 4 Now was the day come wherein I was indeed to be freed of my rhetoric professorship, whereof in thought I was already freed, and it was done, thou didst rescue my tongue whence thou haths before rescued my heart, and I blessed thee, rejoicing, retiring with all mine to the villa. What I there did in writing, which was now enlisted in thy service, though still, in this breathing time as it were, panting from the school of pride, my books may witness, as well what I debated with others, as what with myself alone before thee. What with nebridious, who is absent, my epistles bear witness, and when shall I have time to rehearse all thy great benefits towards us at that time, especially when hasting on to yet greater mercies. For my remembrance recalls me, and pleasant is it to me, O Lord, to confess to thee by what inward goads thou tamest me, and how thou hast evened me, lowering the mountains and hills of my high imaginations, straightening my crookedness, and smoothing my rough ways, and how thou also subduest the brother of my heart, Olympius, unto the name of thy only begotten, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, which he would not at first vouchsafe to have inserted into our writings. For rather would he have them savor of the lofty cedars of the schools, which the Lord hath now broken down, than of the wholesome herbs of the church, the antidote against serpents. O, in what accents spake I unto thee, my God, when I read the Psalms of David, whose faithful songs and sounds of devotion, which allow of no swelling spirit, as yet a catechumen and a novice in thy real love, resting in that villa, with Olympius a catechumen, my mother cleaving to us in female garb with masculine faith, with the tranquillity of age, motherly love, Christian piety? O, what a sense did I utter unto thee in those Psalms, and how was I by them kindled towards thee, and on fire to rehearse them, if possible, through the whole world against the pride of mankind? And yet they are sung through the whole world, nor can any hide thyself from thy heat. With what vehement and bitter sorrow I was angered at the manachese, and again I pitied them, for that they knew not those sacraments, those medicines, and were mad against the antidote, which might have recovered them of their madness. How I would they had been somewhere near me, and without my knowing that they were there, could have beheld my countenance, and heard my words, when I read the fourth Psalm in that time of my rest, and how that Psalm wrought upon me, when I called, the God of my righteousness heard me, in tribulation thou enlargest me, have mercy upon me, Lord, and hear my prayer. Would that what I uttered on these words they could hear, without my knowing whether they heard, lest they should think I spake it for their sakes? Because in truth neither should I speak the same things, nor in the same way, if I perceive that they heard and saw me, nor if I spake them would they so receive them, as when I spake by and for myself before thee, out of the natural feelings of my soul. I trembled for fear, and again kindled with hope, and with rejoicing in thy mercy, O Father, and all issued forth both by mine eyes and voice, when thy good spirit turning unto us, said, O ye sons of men, how long slow of heart! Why do you love vanity and seek after leasing? For I had loved vanity and sought after leasing. And thou, O Lord, hast already manifested thy holy one, raising him from the dead and setting him at thy right hand, whenced from on high he should send his promise, the comforter, the spirit of truth. And he had already sent him, but I knew it not. He had sent him because he was now magnified, rising again from the dead, and ascending into heaven. For till then the spirit was not given because Jesus was not yet glorified, and the prophet cries out, How long slow of heart! Why do ye love vanity and seek after leasing? Know this, that the Lord hath magnified his holy one. He cries out, How long! He cries out, Know this! And I so long, not knowing, loved vanity and sought after leasing. And therefore I heard and trembled, because it was spoken unto such as I remembered myself to have been. For in those phantoms which I had held for truths, there were vanity and leasing, and I spake aloud many things earnestly and forcefully in the bitterness of my remembrance. Which would they heard, who yet love vanity and seek after leasing, they would perchance have been troubled and have vomited it up, and thou wouldst hear them when they cried unto thee, for by a true death in the flesh did he die for us, who now intercedeth unto thee for us. I further read, Be angry and sin not. And how as I moved, oh my God, who had learned to be angry at myself for things past, that I might not sin in time to come? Ye, to be justly angry. For that it was not another nature of a people of darkness which sinned for me, as they say who are not angry at themselves, and treasure up wrath against the day of wrath and the revelation of thy judgment. Nor were my good things now without, nor sought with the eyes of flesh in that earthly sun, for they that would have joy from without soon became vain and wasted themselves on the things seen and temporal, and in their famished thoughts do lick their very shadows. Oh, that they were wearied with their famine and said, Who will show us good things? And we would say, and they hear, the light of thy countenance is sealed upon us, for we are not that light which enlighteneth every man, but are enlightened by thee. Having been sometimes darkness, we may be light in thee. Oh, that they could see the eternal internal, which having tasted, I was grieved that I could not show it them, so long as they brought me their heart and their eyes, roving abroad from thee, while they said, Who will show us good things? For there, where I was angry with myself in my chamber, where I was inwardly pricked, where I had sacrificed slaying my old man and commencing the purpose of a new life, putting my trust in thee. There, hath thou begun to grow sweet unto me, and haths put gladness in my heart. And I cried out as I read this outwardly, finding it inwardly. Nor would I be multiplied with worldly goods, wasting away time and wasted by time, whereas I had in thy eternal simple essence other corn, wine, and oil. And with a loud cry of my heart I cried out in the next verse, O in peace, O for the self-same. O what said he? I will lay me down in sleep, for who shall hinder us when cometh to pass that saying which is written, Death is swallowed up in victory? And thou surpassingly art the self-same, who art not changed, and thee is rest, which forgeteth all toil, for there is none other with thee. Nor are we to seek those many other things which are not what thou art, but thou, Lord, alone hast made me dwell in hope. I read and kindled, nor found I what to do to those deaf and dead of whom myself had been a pestilent person, a bitter and a blind waller against those writings which are honeyed with the honey of heaven, and lightsome with thine own light, and I was consumed with zeal at the enemies of this scripture. When shall I recall all which passed in those holy days? Yet neither have I forgotten, nor will I pass over the severity of thy scourge and the wonderful swiftness of thy mercy. Thou didst then torment me with pain in my teeth, which when it had come to such height, for that I could not speak, it came into my heart to desire all my friends present to pray for me to thee, the God of all manner of health. And this I wrote on wax, and gave it them to read. Presently, so soon as with humble devotion we had bowed our knees, that pain went away. But what pain, or how went it away? I was affrighted, O Lord my God, for from infancy I had never experienced the like, and the power of thy nod was deeply conveyed to me, and rejoicing in faith I praised thy name. And that faith suffered me not to be at ease about my past sins which were not yet forgiven me by that baptism. CHAPTER V The vintage vacation ended I gave notice to the Milanese to provide their scholars with another master to sell words to them, for that I had both made choice to serve thee, and through my difficulty of breathing and pain in my chest was not equal to the professorship. And by letters I signified to thy prelate, the holy man Ambrose, my former heirs and present desires, begging his advice what of thy scriptures I had best read, to become readier and fitter for receiving so great grace. He recommended Isaiah the prophet. I believe, because he above the rest is a more clear foreshower of the gospel, and of the calling of the Gentiles. But I, not understanding the first lesson in him, and imagining the whole to be like it, laid it by to be resumed when better practised in our Lord's own words. CHAPTER VI Thence when the time was come wherein I wished to give in my name, we left the country and returned to Milan. It pleased Olympias also to be with me, born again in thee, being already clothed with the humility befitting thy sacraments, and a most valiant tamer of the body, so as, with unwanted venture, to wear the frozen ground of Italy with his bare feet. We joined with us the boy, Adiodatas, born after the flesh of my sin. Excellently hath thou made him. He was not quite fifteen, and in wits or past many grave and learned men. I confess unto thee thy gifts, O Lord my God, creator of all. Unabundantly able to reform our deformities, for I had no part in that boy but the sin. For that we brought him up in thy discipline, it was thou, none else, had inspired us with it. I confess unto thee thy gifts. There is a book of ours entitled The Master. It is a dialogue between him and me. Thou knowest that all there ascribed to the person conversing with me were his ideas in his sixteenth year. Much besides, and yet more admirable I found in him. That talent struck awe into me, and who but thou could be the workmaster of such wonders? Soon didst thou take his life from the earth, and I now remember him without anxiety, fearing nothing for his childhood or youth or his whole self. Him we joined with us, our contemporary engrace, to be brought up in thy discipline, and we were baptized, and anxiety for our past life vanished from us. Nor was I stated in those days with the wondrous sweetness of considering the depth of thy councils concerning the salvation of mankind. How did I weep in thy hymns and canticles, touched to the quick by the voices of thy sweet attuned church? The voices flowed into mine ears, and the truth distilled into my heart, whence the affections of my devotion overflowed, and tears ran down, and happy was I therein. CHAPTER 7 What long had the Church of Milan begun to use this kind of consolation and exhortation, the brethren zealously joining with harmony of voices and hearts? For it was a year, or not much more, that Justina, mother to the Emperor, Valentinian, a child, persecuted thy servant Ambrose, in favour of her heresy, to which she was seduced by the Aryans. The devout people kept watch in the Church, ready to die with their bishop thy servant. For my mother, thy handmaid, bearing a chief part of these anxieties and watchings, lived for prayer. We, yet unwarmed by the heat of thy spirit, still were stirred up by the sight of the amazed and disquieted city. Then it was first instituted that after the manner of the Eastern Churches hymns and psalms should be sung, lest the people should wax faint through the tediousness of sorrow. And from that day to this the custom is retained, diverse, yea, almost all of thy congregations, throughout other parts of the world following herein. Then didst thou by a vision discover to thy forenamed bishop where the bodies of Gravaceus and Protaceus, the martyrs lay hid, whom thou hast in thy secret treasury stored uncorrupted so many years, whenst thou mightest seasonally produce them to repress the fury of a woman but an empress. For when they were discovered and dug up and with due honour translated to the Ambrosian Basilica, not only they who were vexed with unclean spirits, the devils confessing themselves, were cured, but a certain man who had for many years been blind, a citizen, and well known to the city, asking and hearing the reason of the people's confused joy, sprang forth, desiring his guide to lead him thither. Led thither, he begged to be allowed to touch with his handkerchief the bear of thy saints whose death is precious in thy sight. Which when he had done and put to his eyes, they were forthwith opened. Thence did the fame spread, thence thy praises glowed, shone, thence the mind of that enemy, though not turned to the soundness of believing, was yet turned back from her fury of persecuting. Thanks to thee, oh my God, whence and wither hast thou thus led my remembrance that I should confess these things also into thee? Which great though they be, I had passed in forgetfulness. And yet then, when the odor of thy ointment was so fragrant, did we not run after thee? Therefore did I more weep among the singing of thy hymns, formerly sighing after thee, and at length breathing in thee, as far as the breath may enter into this house of grass. Thou that makest men to dwell, of one mind in one house, disjoin with us Iodias also, a young man of our own city, who being an officer of the court was before us converted to thee and baptized, and quitting his secular warfare, girded himself to thine. We were together about to dwell together in our devout purpose. We sought where we might serve thee most usefully, and were together returning to Africa, wither word being as far as Ostia my mother departed this life. Much I omit, as hastening much, receive my confessions and thanksgivings, oh my God, for innumerable things whereof I am silent, but I will not omit whatsoever my soul would bring forth concerning that thy handmaid who brought me forth, both in the flesh, that I might have been born to this temporal light and in the heart that I might be born to light eternal. Not her gifts, but thine in her would I speak of, for neither did she make nor educate herself, thou createst her, nor did her father and mother know what a one should come from them, and the scepter of thy Christ, the disciple of thine only son, in a Christian house, a good member of thy church, educated her in thy fear. Yet for her good discipline she was want to commend not so much her mother's diligence as that of a certain decrepit maid-servant who had carried her father when a child, as little ones used to be carried at the backs of elder girls. For which reason, and for her great age, an excellent conversation was she in that Christian family while respected by its heads. Whence also the charge of her master's daughter was entrusted to her, to which she gave diligent heed, restraining them earnestly when necessary with a holy severity, and teaching them with a grave discretion. For except at those hours wherein they were most temperately fed at their parent's table, she would not suffer them, though parched with thirst to drink even water, preventing an evil custom and adding to this wholesome advice. Ye drink water now, because ye have not wine in your power, but when you come to be married, and be made mistress of cellars and cupboards, ye will scorn water, but the custom of drinking will abide. By this method of instruction and the authority she had, she refrained the greediness of childhood, and molded their very thirst into such an excellent moderation that what they should not, that they would not. And yet, as thy handmaid told me her son, there had crept upon her a love of wine, for when, as the manner was, she, as though a sober maiden, was bitten by her parents to draw wine out of the hog's head, holding the vessel under the opening, before she poured the wine into the flaggin, she sipped a little with the tip of her lips. For more her instinctive feelings refused. For this she did, not out of any desire of drink, but out of the exuberance of youth, whereby it boils over in mirthful freaks, which in youthful spirits are want to be kept under by the gravity of their elders. And thus by adding to that little, daily littles, for who despises little things shall fall by little and little, she had fallen into such a habit, as greedily to drink off her little cup brimful almost of wine. Where was then that discreet old woman, and that her earnest countermanding, would ought avail against a secret disease, if thy healing hand, O Lord, watch not over us? Father, mother, and governor's absent, thou present, who createest, who callest, who also, by those set over us, workest something towards the salvation of our souls? What dits thou then, O my God? How dits thou cure her? How heal her? Dits thou not, out of another soul, bring forth a hard and a sharp taunt, like a lancet out of thy secret store, and with one touch remove all that foul stuff? For a maid-servant with whom she used to go to the cellar, falling to words, as it happens, with her little mistress, when alone with her, taunted her with this fault, with most bitter insult, calling her a wine-biber, with which taunt she, stung to the quick, saw the foulness of her fault, and instantly condemned and forsook it. As flattering friends pervert, so reproachful enemies mostly correct, yet not what by them thou doest, but what themselves purposed, thou dost repay them. For she in her anger sought to vex her young mistress, not to amend her, and did it in private, either for that the time and place of the quarrel so found them, or lest herself also should have anger for discovering it thus late. But thou, Lord, Governor of all heaven and earth, who turnest to thy purpose the deepest currents, and the ruled turbulence of the tide of the times, dits by the very unhealthiness of one soul heal another, lest any, when he observes this, should ascribe it to his own power, even when another, whom he wished to be reformed, is reformed through words of his. CHAPTER IX Brought up thus modestly and soberly, and made subject rather, by thee to her parents, than by her parents to thee, so soon as she was of marriageable age, being bestowed upon a husband, she served him as her lord, and did her diligence to win him unto thee, preaching thee unto him by her conversation, and by which thou ornamentest her, making her reverently amiable, and admirable unto her husband. And she so endured the wronging of her bed, as never to have any quarrel with her husband thereon, for she looked for thy mercy upon him, that believing in thee he might be made chaste. But besides this he was fervid, as in his affections, so in anger, but she had learnt not to resist an angry husband, not indeed only, but not even in word. Only when he was smoothed and tranquil, and in a temper to receive it, she would give an account of her actions, if happily he had over hastily taken offence. In a word, while many matrons, who had milder husbands, yet bore even in their faces marks of shame, would in familiar talk blame their husband's lives, she would blame their tongues, giving them, as in jest, earnest advice, that from the time they heard the marriage writings read to them, they should account them as indentures, whereby they were made servants, and also, remembering their condition, ought not to set themselves up against their lords. And they, knowing what a choleric husband she endured, marvelled, that it had never been heard, nor by any token perceived, that Patricius had beaten his wife, or that there had been any domestic difference between them, even for one day, and confidentially asking the reason she taught them her practice above mentioned. Those wives who observed it found the good, and returned thanks. Those who observed it not found no relief and suffered. Her mother-in-law also, at first by whisperings of evil servants incensed against her, she so overcame by observance and persevering endurance and meekness, that she of her own accord discovered to her son the meddling tongues, whereby the domestic peace betwixt her and her daughter-in-law had been disturbed, asking him to correct them. Then, when in compliance with his mother, and for the well-ordering of the family, and the harmony of its members, he had with stripes corrected those discovered, at her will who had discovered them, she promised the like reward to any who, to please her, should speak ill of her daughter-in-law to her, and, none now venturing, they lived together with a remarkable sweetness of mutual kindness. This great gift also thou bestowest, oh my God, my mercy, upon that good hand made of thine, in whose womb thou createst me, that between any disagreeing and discordant parties where she was able, she showed herself such a peacemaker, that hearing on both sides most bitter things, such as swelling and ingested coller, used to break out into, when the credulities of enmities are breathed out in sour discourses, to a present friend, against an absent enemy. She never would disclose ought of the one unto the other, but what might tend to their reconcilement. A small good this might appear to me, did I not to my grief no numberless people, who through some horrible and widespread incantation of sin, not only disclose to persons mutually angered things said in anger, but add with all things never spoken, were asked to humane humanity, it ought to seem a light thing, not to foment or increase ill will by ill words, unless one study with all by good words to quench it. Such was she, thyself, her most inward instructor, teaching her in the school of the heart. Finally her own husband, towards the very end of his earthly life, did she gain unto thee, nor had she to complain of that in him as a believer, which before he was a believer she had borne from him. She was also the servant of thy servants, whosoever of them knew her, did in her much praise and honour and love thee, for that through the witness of the fruits of a holy conversation they perceived thy presence in her heart. For she had been the wife of one man, had requited her parents, had governed her house piously, was well reported of for good works, had brought up children, so often travailing in birth of them, as she saw them swerving from thee. Lastly, of all of us thy servants, O Lord, whom on occasion of thine own gift thou sufferest to speak, us, who before her sleeping in thee lived united together, having received the grace of thy baptism, did so take care of as though she had been mother of us all, so served us as though she had been a child to us all. CHAPTER X The day now approaching whereon she was to depart this life, which day thou well newest, we knew not, it came to pass, thyself, as I believe, by thy secret ways so ordering it, that she and I stood alone, leaning on a certain window, which looked into the garden of the house where we now lay, at Ostia. Were removed from the din of men, we were recruiting from the fatigues of a long journey for the voyage. We were discoursing then together alone very sweetly, and forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, we were inquiring between ourselves in the presence of thy truth, which thou art, of what sort the eternal life of the saints was to be, which I hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man. But yet we gasped, with the mouth of our heart, after those heavenly streams of thy fountain, the fountain of life, which is with thee. That being bedewed thence, according to our captivity, we might in some sort meditate upon so high a mystery. And when our discourse was brought to that point, that very highest delight of the earthly senses, in the very purest material light, was, in respect of the sweetness of that life, not only worthy of comparison, but not even of mention, we raising up ourselves with a more glowing affection towards the self-same, did by degrees pass through all things bodily, even the very heaven, whence sun and moon and stars shine upon the earth. Yea, we were soaring higher yet, by inward musing and discourse and admiring of thy works. And we came to our own minds and went beyond them, that we might arrive at that region of never failing plenty, where thou feedest Israel for ever with the food of truth, and where life is the wisdom by whom all these things are made, and what hath been, and what shall be, and she is not made, but is, as she hath been, and so shall she ever be. Yea, rather, to have been, and hereafter to be, are not in her, but only to be, seeing she is eternal. For to have been, and to be hereafter are not eternal. And while we were discoursing and panting after her, we slightly touched on her with the whole effect of our heart, and we sighed, and there we leave bound the first fruits of the spirit, and returned to vocal expressions of our mouth, where the word spoken has beginning and end. And what is likened to thy word, O Lord, who endureth in himself without becoming old, and maketh all things new? We were saying, then, if to any the tulmut of the flesh were hushed, hushed the images of the earth and waters and air, hushed also the poles of heaven, yea, the very soul be hushed to herself, and by not thinking on self surmount self, hushed all dreams and imaginary revelations, every tongue and every sign, and whatsoever exists only in transition, since if any could hear all these say, we may not ourselves, but he made us that abideth for ever. If then, having uttered this, they too should be hushed, having browsed only our ears to him who made them, and he alone speak, not by them, but by himself, that we may hear his word, not through any tongue of flesh, nor angel's voice, nor sound of thunder, nor in the dark riddle of a similitude, but might hear whom in these things we love, might hear his very self without these, as we too now strained ourselves, and in swift thought touched on that eternal wisdom which abideth over all. Could this be continued on, and other visions of kind far unlike be withdrawn, and this one ravish, and absorb, and wrap up its beholder amid those inward joys, so that life might be for ever that one moment of understanding which now we sighed after. We're not this, enter into thy master's joy, and when shall that be, when we shall all rise again, though we shall not all be changed. Such things was I speaking, and even if not in this very manner, and these same words, yet Lord thou knowest, that in that day when we were speaking of these things, and this world with all its delights became, as we spake, contemptible to us, my mother said, Son, for mine own part I have no further delight in anything in this life. Would I do hear any longer, and to what end I am here, I know not, now that my hopes in this world are accomplished. One thing there was, for which I desired to linger for a while in this life, that I might see thee a Catholic Christian before I died. My God hath done this for me more abundantly, that I should now see thee with all, despising earthly happiness, become his servant. What do I hear? BOOK NINE CHAPTER XI What answer I made her unto these things I remember not. For scarce five days after, or not much more, she fell sick of a fever, and in that sickness one day she fell into a swoon, and was for a while withdrawn from these visible things. We hastened round her, but she was soon brought back to her senses, and looking on me and my brothers standing by her, said to us inquiringly, Where was I? And then looking fixedly on us, with grief amazed, Here, sayeth she, shall you bury your mother? I held my peace in refrained weeping, but my brothers spake something wishing for her as the happier lot that she might die not in a strange place but in her own land, where at she with anxious look checked him with her eyes, for that he still savored such things, and then looking upon me, behold, sayeth she, what he sayeth? And soon after to us both, lay sayeth she, this body anywhere, let not the care for that any way disquiet you, this only I request that you would remember me at the Lord's altar wherever you be. And having delivered this sentiment in what words she could she held her peace being exercised by her growing sickness. But I, considering thy gifts, thou unseen God, which thou instillest into the hearts of thy faithful ones, whence wondrous fruits do spring, did rejoice and give thanks to thee, recalling what I before knew, how careful and anxious she had ever been, as to her place of burial, which she had provided and prepared for herself by the body of her husband. For because they had lived in great harmony together she also wished, so little can the human mind embrace things divine, to have this addition to that happiness, and to have it remembered among men that after her pilgrimage beyond the seas, what was earthly of this united pair had been permitted to be united beneath the same earth. But when this emptiness had through the fullness of thy goodness begun to cease in her heart, I knew not, and rejoiced admiring that she had so disclosed to me. Though indeed, in that our discourse also in the window when she had said, what do I hear any longer, there appeared no desire of dying in her own country. I heard afterwards also that when we were now at Ostia, she with a mother's confidence, when I was absent, one day discourse was certain of my friends about the contempt of this life and the blessing of death. And when they were amazed at such courage, which thou hast given to a woman, and asked whether she were not afraid to leave her body so far from her own city, she replied, Nothing is far to God, nor was it to be feared lest at the end of the world he should not recognize whence he were to raise me up. On the ninth day then of her sickness, and the 56th year of her age, and the three and thirtieth of mine, was that religious and holy soul freed from the body. CHAPTER XII I closed her eyes, and there flowed with all a mighty sorrow into my heart, which was overflowing into tears. Mine eyes at the same time, by the violent command of my mind, drank up their fountain wholly dry, and woe was me in such a strife. But when she breathed her last, the boy, Adiodatas, burst out into a loud lament, then, checked by us all, held his peace. In like manner also a childish feeling in me, which was, through my heart's youthful voice, finding its vent in weeping, was checked and silenced, for we thought it not fitting to solemnize that funeral with tearful lament and groanings, for thereby do they for the most part express grief for the departed, as though unhappy or altogether dead, whereas she was neither unhappy in her death nor altogether dead. Of this we were assured on good grounds, the testimony of her good conversation, and her faith unfaigned. What then was it, which did grievously pain me within, but a fresh wound wrought through the sudden wrench of that most sweet and dear custom of living together? I joined indeed in her testimony, when, in that her last sickness, mingling her endearments with my acts of duty, she called me dutiful and unmentioned, with great affection of love, that she never had heard any harsh or reproachful sound uttered by my mouth against her. But yet, oh my God, who made us us, what comparison is there betwixt that honour that I paid to her and her slavery for me? But then forsaken of so great comfort in her, my soul was wounded, and that life rent asunder as it were, which of hers and mine together had been made but one. The boy then being stilled from weeping. Eodias took up the salter and began to sing, our whole house answering him, the psalm, I will sing of mercy and judgment to thee, oh Lord. But hearing what we were doing, many brethren and religious women came together, and whilst they, whose office it was, made ready for the burial, as the manner is, I, in that part of the house where I might properly, together with those who thought not fit to leave me, discoursed upon something fitting the time, and by this balm of truth, assuaged that torment, known to thee, they unknowing and listening intently, and conceiving me to be without all sense of sorrow. But in thine ears were none of them heard. I blamed the weakness of my feelings, and refrained my flood of grief, which gave way a little unto me, but again came, as with a tide, yet not so as to burst out into tears, nor to a change of countenance. Still I knew keeping down my heart, and being very much displeased that these human things had such power over me, which in the due order and appointment of our natural condition must needs come to pass, with a new grief I grieved for my grief, and was thus worn by a double sorrow. And behold, the corpse was carried to the burial. We went and returned without tears. For neither in those prayers which we poured forth unto thee, when the sacrifice of our ransom was offered for her, when now the corpse was by the grave's side, as the manner there is, previous to its being laid therein, did I weep even during those prayers. Yet was I the whole day in secret heavily sad, and with troubled mind prayed thee, as I could, to heal my sorrow. Yet thou didst not, impressing, I believe, upon my memory by this one instance, how strong is the bond of all habit, even upon a soul which now feeds upon no deceiving word. It seemed also good to me to go and bathe, having heard that the bath had its name, Valneum, from the Greek, the theophore, for that it drives sadness from the mind. And this also I confess unto thy mercy, father of the fatherless, that I bathed and was the same as before I bathed, for the bitterness of sorrow could not exude out of my heart. Then I slept, and woke up again, and found my grief not a little softened. And as I was alone in my bed, I remembered those true verses of thy ambros, for thou art thee, maker of all the Lord, and ruler of the height, who, robbing day in light, hast poured soft slumbers o'er the night, that to our limbs the power of toil may be renewed, and hearts be raised that sink and cower, and sorrows be subdued. And then little by little I recovered my former thoughts of thy handmaid, her holy conversation towards thee, her holy tenderness and observance towards us, whereof I was suddenly deprived, and I was minded to weep in thy sight, for her and for myself, in her behalf, and in mine own. And I gave way to the tears which I before restrained, to overflow as much as they desired, reposing my heart upon them, and found rest in them, for it was in thy ears, not in those of man who would have scornfully interpreted my weeping. And now, Lord, in writing I confess it unto thee. Read it, who will, and interpret it how he will, and if he finds sin therein, that I wept my mother for a small portion of an hour, the mother who for the time was dead to mine eyes, who had for many years wept for me, that I might live in thine eyes, let him not deride me, but rather, if he be one of large charity, let him weep himself for my sins unto thee, the father of all the brethren of thy Christ. CHAPTER XIII But now, with a hard cured of that wound, wherein it might seem blameworthy for an earthly feeling, I pour out unto thee, our God, in behalf of that thy handmaid, a far different kind of tears, flowing from a spirit shaken by the thoughts of the dangers of every soul that dyeth in Adam. And although she having been quickened in Christ, even before her release from the flesh, had lived to the praise of thy name for her faith and conversation, yet dare I not say that from what time thou regeneratest her by baptism no word issued from her mouth against thy commandment. Thy Son, the truth hath said, whoever shall say unto his brother, thou fool, shall be in danger of hellfire, and woe be even unto the commendable life of men, if, laying aside mercy, they should us examine it. But because thou art not extreme in inquiring after sins, we confidently hope to find some place with thee. But whosoever reckons up his real merits to thee, what reckons he up to thee but thine own gifts? O that men would know themselves to be men, and that he that Gloriath would glory in the Lord. I, therefore, owe my praise and my life, God of my heart, laying aside for a while her good deeds, for which I give thanks to thee with joy, do now beseech thee for the sins of my mother. Hark and unto me I entreat thee by the medicine of our wounds, who hung upon the tree, and now sitting at thy right hand, make it intercession to thee for us. I know that she dealt mercifully, and from her heart forgave her debtors their debts. Do they also forgive her debts, whatever she may have contracted in so many years, since the water of salvation? Forgive her, Lord. Forgive. I beseech thee, and her not into judgment with her. Let thy mercy be exalted above thy justice, since thy words are true, and thou hast promised mercy unto the merciful, which thou gave us them to be. Who wilt have mercy upon whom thou wilt have compassion on whom thou hast compassion? And, I believe, thou hast already done what I ask. But accept, O Lord, the free will offerings of my mouth. For she, the day of her dissolution now at hand, took no thought to have her body sumptuously wound up, or embalmed with spices, nor desired she a choice monument, or to be buried in her own land. These things she enjoined us not, but desired only to have her name commemorated at thy altar, which she had served without intermission of one day, when she knew that holy sacrifice to be dispensed, by which the handwriting that was against us is blotted out, through which the enemy was triumphed over, who summing up our offenses and seeking what lay to our charge found nothing in him, in whom we conquer. Who shall restore to him the innocent blood, who repay him the price wherewith he bought us, and so take us from him? Unto the sacrament of which our ransom, thy handmaid bound her soul by the bond of faith. Let none sever her from thy protection. Let neither the lion nor the dragon impose himself by force or fraud. For she will not answer that she owes nothing, lest she be convicted and seized by the crafty accuser, but she will answer that her sins are forgiven her by him to whom none can repay that price which he who owed nothing paid for us. May she then rest in peace with the husband before and after whom she had never any, whom she obeyed with patience bringing forth fruit unto thee, that she might win him also unto thee. And inspire, O Lord my God, inspire thy servants, my brethren, thy sons, my masters, whom with voice and heart I pen serve, so many as shall read these confessions. May at thy altar remember Monica, thy handmaid, with Patricia's, her sometimes husband, by whose bodies thou broughtest me into this life, how I know not. May they, with devout affection, remember my parents in this transitory light, my brethren under thee, our father in the Catholic mother, and my fellow citizens in that eternal Jerusalem, which thy pilgrim people scythe after from their exodus, even unto their returned thither. That so, my mother's last request of me, may through my confessions, more than through my prayers, be, through the prayers of many, more abundantly fulfilled in her. End of Book 9. Book 10, chapters one to ten of The Confessions by St. Augustine, translated by E. B. Pusey. This is the Brevox recordings in the public domain, read by Miriam. Book 10. Having in the former books spoken of himself before his receiving the grace of baptism, in this Augustine confesses what he then was, but first he inquires by what faculty we can know God at all, whence he enlarges on the mysterious character of the memory, wherein God, being made known, dwells, but which could not discover him. Then he examines his own trials under the triple division of temptation, lust of the flesh, lust of the eyes and pride, what Christian constancy prescribes as to each, on Christ the only mediator who heals and will heal all infirmities. Chapter one. Let me know thee, O Lord, who knowest me. Let me know thee as I am known. Power of my soul, enter into it, and fit it for thee, that thou mayest have and hold it without spot or wrinkle. This is my hope, therefore do I speak, and in this hope do I rejoice when I rejoice healthfully. Other things of this life are the less to be sorrowed for, the more they are sorrowed for, and the more to be sorrowed for, the less men sorrow for them. For behold, thou lovest the truth, and he that doeth it cometh to the light. This would I do in my heart before thee in confession, and in my writing before many witnesses. Chapter two. And from thee, O Lord, unto whose eyes the abyss of man's conscience is naked, what could be hidden in me, though I would not confess it? For I should hide thee from me, but not me from thee. But now, for that my groaning is witness, that I am displeased with myself, thou shinest out and art pleasing, and beloved, and longed for, that I may be ashamed of myself, and renounce myself, and choose thee, and neither please thee nor myself, but in thee. To thee, therefore, O Lord, am I open, whatever I am, and with what fruit I confess unto thee, I have said. Nor do I it with words and sounds of the flesh, but with the words of my soul, and the cry of the thought which thy ear knoweth. For when I am evil, then to confess to thee, is nothing else than to be displeased with myself. But when holy, nothing else than not to ascribe it to myself, because thou, O Lord, blesseth the godly, but first thou justifyeth him when ungodly. My confession, then, O God, in thy sight is made silently, and not silently. For in sound it is silent. In affection it cries aloud. For neither do I utter anything right unto men, which thou hest not before heard from me, nor dost thou hear any such thing from me, which thou hest not first said unto me. What, then, have I to do with men, that they should hear my confessions, as if they could heal on my infirmities? A race, curious to know the lives of others, slothful to amend their own. Why seek they to hear from me what I am, who will not hear from thee what themselves are? And how know they, when from myself they hear of myself, whether I say true, seeing no man knows what is in man, but the spirit of man which is in him? But if they hear from thee of themselves, they cannot say the Lord lieth. For what is it to hear from thee of themselves, but to know themselves? And who knoweth and sayeth it is false, unless himself lieth? But because charity belieeth all things, that his among those whom knitting unto itself make it one, I also, O Lord, will in such wise confess unto thee, that men may hear to whom I cannot demonstrate whether I confess truly, yet they believe me, whose ears charity openeth unto me. But do thou, my inmost physician, make plain unto me what fruit I may reap by doing it? For the confessions of my past sins, which thou hast forgiven and covered, that thou mightest bless me in thee, changing my soul by faith and thy sacrament, when read and heard stir up the heart, that it sleep not in despair and say I cannot, but awake in the love of thy mercy and the sweetness of thy grace, whereby whoso is weak is strong, when by it he became conscious of his own weakness. And the good delight to hear of the past evils of such as are now freed from them, not because they are evils, but because they have been and are not. With what fruit then, O Lord my God, to whom my conscience daily confesseth, trusting more in the hope of thy mercy than in her own innocencey, with what fruit, I pray, do I by this book confess to men also in thy presence? What I am now, not what I have been. For that other fruit I have seen and spoken of. But what I am now, at the very time of making these confessions, diver's desire to know, who have or have not known me, who have heard from me or of me, but their ear is not at my heart. Where I am, whatever I am. They wish then to hear me confess what I am within, whether neither their eye nor ear nor understanding can reach. They wish it, as ready to believe, but will they know? For charity whereby they are good, telleth them that in my confessions I lie not, and she in them believeth me. But for what fruit would they hear this? Do they desire to join with me when they hear how near by thy gift I approach unto thee, and to pray for me when they shall hear how much I am held back by my own weight? To such will I discover myself. For it is no mean fruit, O Lord my God, that by many thanks should be given to thee on our behalf, and thou be by many entreated for us. Let the brotherly mind love in me, what thou teachest is to be loved and lament in me, what thou teachest is to be lamented. Let a brotherly, not a stranger, mind, not that of the strange children whose mouth talketh of vanity and their right hand is a right hand of iniquity, but that brotherly mind, which when approveth rejoiceth for me, and when it disproveth me is sorry for me, because whether it approveth or disproveth it loveth me. To such will I discover myself. They will breathe freely at my good deeds, sigh for my ill. My good deeds are thine appointments, and thy gifts, my evil ones are my offenses, and thy judgments. Let them breathe freely at the one, sigh at the other, and let hymns and weeping go up into thy sight, out of the hearts of my brethren, thy censors. And do thou, O Lord, be pleased with the incense of thy holy temple, have mercy upon me according to thy great mercy, for thine own names' sake, and no ways for saking what thou hast begun, perfect my imperfections. This is the fruit of my confessions of what I am, not of what I have been, to confess this, not before the only, in a secret exaltation with trembling and a secret sorrow with hope, but in the ears also of the believing sons of men, sharers of my joy and partners of my mortality, my fellow citizens and fellow pilgrims, who are gone before, or are to follow on, companions of my way. These are thy servants, my brethren, whom thou willest to be thy sons, my masters whom thou commandest me to serve, if I would live with thee, of thee. But this thy word, where little did it only command by speaking, and not go before in performing. This then I do indeed and word, this I do under thy wings. In over great peril were not my soul subdued unto thee under thy wings, and my infirmity known unto thee. I am a little one, that my father ever liveth, and my guardian is sufficient for me. For he is the same who begat me and defends me, and thou thyself art all my good, thou all mighty, who art with me, yea, before I am with thee. To such then, whom thou commandest me to serve, will I discover not what I have been, but what I now am, and what I yet am. But neither do I judge myself, thus therefore I would be heard. Chapter 5 For thou, Lord, dost judge me, because although no man knoweth the things of a man, but the spirit of a man which is in him, yet is there something of man which neither the spirit of man that is in him itself knoweth, but thou, Lord, knowest all of him who hast made him. Yet I, though in thy sight I despise myself and account myself dust and ashes, yet know I something of thee which I know not of myself, and truly now we see through a glass darkly and not face to face as yet. So long, therefore, as I be absent from thee, I am more present with myself than with thee, and yet I know thee that thou art in no way passable. But I, what temptations I can resist, what I cannot, I know not. And there is hope, because thou art faithful, who wilt not suffer us to be tempted above that we are able, but wilt with the temptation also make a way to escape that we may be able to bear it. I will confess, then, what I know of myself. I will confess also what I know not of myself, and that because what I do know of myself I know by thy shining upon me, and what I know not of myself. So long know I not it, until my darkness be made as the noonday in thy countenance. Not with doubting, but with assured consciousness, do I love thee, Lord. Thou hast stricken my heart with thy word, and I loved thee. Yea, also heaven and earth, and all that therein is, behold, on every side they bid me love thee. Nor cease to say so unto all that they may be without excuse. But more deeply wilt thou have mercy on whom thou wilt have mercy, and wilt have compassion on whom thou hast had compassion. Else in deaf ears do the heaven and the earth speak thy praises. But what do I love when I love thee? Not beauty of bodies, nor the fair harmony of time, nor the brightness of the light so gladsome to our eyes, nor sweet melodies of varied songs, nor the fragrant smell of flowers and ointments and spices, not mana and honey, not limbs acceptable to embracements of flesh. None of these I love when I love my God, and yet I love a kind of light and melody and fragrance and meat and embracement when I love my God, the light, melody, fragrance, meat, embracement of my inner man, where there shineth unto my soul what space cannot contain, and there soundeth what time beareth not away, and there smelleth what breathing disperseeth not, and there tasteth what eating diminisheseth not, and there clingeth what satiety divorceseth not. This it is which I love when I love my God. And what is this? I asked the earth and it answered me, I am not he, and whatsoever are in it confessed the same. I asked the sea and the depths and the living creeping things, and they answered, We are not thy God, seek above us. I asked the moving air and the whole air with its inhabitants answered, Anisimides was deceived, I am not God. I asked the heavens, sun, moon, stars, nor say they are we the God whom thou seekest. And I replied unto all the things which encompassed the door of my flesh, ye have told me of my God, and ye are not he, tell me something of him. And they cried out with the loud voice, he made us. My questioning them was my thoughts on them, and their form of beauty gave the answer, and I turned myself unto myself, and said to myself, Who art thou? and I answered, A man, and behold, in me there present themselves to my soul and body, one without the other within, but which of these ought I to seek my God? I had sought him in the body from earth to heaven, so far as I could send messengers and the beams of my eyes, but the better is the inner, for to it as presiding and judging, all the bodily messengers reported the answers of heaven and earth, and all things therein who said, We are not God, but he made us. These things did my inner man know by the ministry of the outer, I the inner knew them, I the mind, through the senses of my body. I asked the whole frame of the world about my God, and it answered me, I am not he, but he made me. Is not this corporeal figure apparent to all whose senses are perfect? Why then speaks it not the same to all? Animals small and great see it, but they cannot ask it, because no reason is set over their senses to judge on what they report. But men can ask so that the invisible things of God are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made. But by love of them they are made subject unto them, and subjects cannot judge. Nor yet do the creatures answer such as ask, unless they can judge. Nor yet do they change their voice, i.e. their appearance, if one man only sees, another seeing asks, so as to appear one way to this man, another to that. But appearing the same way to both, it is dumb to this, speaks to that. Yea, rather it speaks to all, but they only understand, who compare its voice received from without, with the truth within. For truth sayeth unto me, neither heaven, nor earth, nor any other body is thy God. This their very nature sayeth to them that seeeth them. They are a mass. A mass is less in a part thereof than in the whole. Now to thee I speak, O my soul, thou art my better part, for thou quickenest the mass of my body, giving it life which no body can give to a body, but thy God is even unto thee the life of thy life. Chapter 7 What then do I love when I love my God? Who is he above the head of my soul? By my very soul I will ascend to him. I will pass beyond that power whereby I am united to my body, and fill its whole frame with life. Nor can I by that power find my God, for so hoarse and mule that have no understanding might find him, seeing it is the same power whereby even their bodies live. But another power there is. Not that only whereby I animate, but that too whereby I imbue with sense my flesh which the Lord hath framed for me, commanding the eye not to hear and the ear not to see. But the eye, that through it I should see, and the ear that through it I should hear. And to the other senses severally, what is to each their own peculiar seats and offices, which, being diverse, I the one mind do through them enact? I will pass beyond this power of mine also, for this also have the horse and the mule, for they also perceive through the body. Chapter 8 I will pass them beyond this power of my nature also, rising by degrees unto him who made me, and I come to the fields and spacious palaces of my memory, where are the treasures of innumerable images brought into it from things of all sorts perceived by the senses? There is stored up, whatsoever besides we think, either by enlarging or diminishing, or any other way varying those things which the senses hath come to, and whatever else hath been committed and laid up which forgetfulness hath not yet swallowed up and buried. When I enter there, I require what I will, to be brought forth, and something instantly comes. Others must be longer sought after, which are fetched, as it were, out of some inner receptacle. Others rush out in troops, and while one thing is desired and required, they start forth, as who should say, is it perchance I? These I drive away with the hand of my heart, from the face of my remembrance, until what I wish for be unveiled, and appear in sight, out of its secret place. Other things come readily, in unbroken order, as they are called for, those in front making way for the following, and as they make way, they are hidden from sight, ready to come when I will, all which takes place when I repeat a thing by heart. There are all things preserved distinctly and under general heads, each having entered by its own avenue, as light and all colors and forms of bodies, by the eyes, by the ears all sorts of sounds, all smells by the avenue of the nostrils, all tastes by the mouth, and by the sensation of the whole body, what is hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or rugged, heavy or light, either outwardly or inwardly to the body. All these doth that great harbour of the memory receive into her numberless secret and inexpressible windings to be forthcoming and brought out at need, each entering in by his own gate, and there laid up. Nor yet do the things themselves enter in, only the images of the things perceived are there in readiness forethought to recall, which images, how they are formed, who can tell, though it doth plainly appear by which sense each hath been brought in and stored up. For even while I dwell in darkness and silence, in my memory I can produce colors, if I will, and discern between black and white, and what others I will. Nor yet do sounds break in and disturb the image drawn in by my eyes which I am reviewing, though they also are there, lying dormant and laid up, as it were, apart. For these, too, I call for, and forthwith they appear. And though my tongue be still, and my throat mute, so can I sing as much as I will. Nor do those images of colors, which not withstanding be there, intrude themselves and interrupt, when another store is called for, which float in by the ears. So the other things piled in and up by the other senses I recall at my pleasure. Yay, I discern the breath of lilies from violets, though smelling nothing, and I prefer honey to sweet wine smooth before rugged, at the time neither tasting nor handling but remembering only. These things do I within, in that vast court of my memory, for there are present with me heaven, earth, sea, and whatever I could think on therein, besides what I have forgotten. There also meet I with myself, and recall myself, and when, where, and what I have done, and under what feelings. There be all which I remember, either on my own experience or others' credit. Out of the same store do I myself with past continually combine fresh, and fresh likenesses of things, which I have experienced, or, from what I have experienced, have believed, and thence again infer future actions, events, and hopes, and all these again I reflect on as present. I will do this or that, say I to myself, in that great receptacle of my mind, stored with the images of things so many and so great, and this or that will follow. Oh, that this or that might be. God avert this or that. So I speak to myself, and when I speak the images of all I speak of are present, out of the same treasury of memory, nor would I speak of any thereof, or the images wanting. Great is this force of memory, excessive great, oh my God, a large and boundless chamber, whoever sound at the bottom thereof, yet is this a power of mine, and belongs unto my nature, nor do I myself comprehend all that I am. Therefore is the mind too straight to contain itself, and where should that be, which it containeth not of itself? Is it without it, and not within? How then doth it not comprehend itself? A wonderful admiration surprises me, amazement seizes me upon this, and men go abroad to admire the heights of mountains, the mighty billows of the sea, the broad tides of rivers, the compass of the oceans, and the currents of the stars, and pass themselves by, nor wonder that when I spake of all these things I did not see them with mine eyes, yet could not have spoken of them, unless I then actually saw the mountains, billows, rivers, stars, which I had seen, and that ocean which I believed to be inwardly in my memory, and that, with the same vast spaces between, as I saw them abroad. Yet did not I by seeing draw them into myself, when with mine eyes I beheld them? Nor are they themselves with me, but their images only, and I know by what sense of the body each was impressed upon me. CHAPTER IX Yet not of these alone does the unmeasurable capacity of my memory retain. Here also is all, learnt of the liberal sciences and as yet unforgotten, removed as it were to some inner place, which is yet no place, nor are they the images thereof, but the things themselves. For what is literature, and what the art of disputing, how many kinds of questions there be, whatsoever of these I know, in such manner exists in my memory, and that I have not taken in the image, and left out the thing, or that it should have sounded and passed away like a voice fixed on the ear by that impress whereby it might be recalled, as if it sounded when it no longer sounded, or as a smell while it passes and evaporates into the air affects the sense of smell, whence it conveys into the memory and image of itself, which remembering we renew, or as meat, which verily in the belly hath now no taste, and yet in the memory still, in a man or tasteth, or as anything which the body by touch perceiveth, and which when removed from us the memory still conceives. For these things are not transmitted into the memory, but their images only are with an admirable swiftness caught up, and stored as it were in wondrous cabinets, and thence wonderfully by the act of remembering brought forth. But now when I hear that there be three kinds of questions, whether the thing be, what is it, of what kind it is, I do indeed hold the images of the sounds of which these words be composed, and that those sounds, with the noise passed through the air, and now are not. But these things themselves, which are signified by those sounds, I never reached with any sense of my body, nor ever discerned them otherwise than in my mind, yet in my memory have I laid up not their images, but themselves, which how they entered into me, let them say if they can, for I have gone over all the avenues of my flesh, but cannot find by which they entered. For the eyes say if those images were colored we reported them. The ears say if they sound we gave knowledge of them. The nostrils say if they smell they passed by us. The taste says unless they have a savor ask me not. The touch says if it have not sighs I handled it not. If I handled it not I gave no notice of it. Whence and how entered these things into my memory? I know not how. For when I learned them I gave not credit to another man's mind, but recognized them in mine, and approving them for true I commended them to it, laying them up as it were, whence I might bring them forth when I willed. In my heart then they were, even before I learned them, but in my memory they were not. Where then, or wherefore, when they were spoken to diagnose them and say, so it is, it is true? Unless that they were already in the memory, but so thrown back and buried as it were in deeper recesses, that had not the suggestion of another drawn them forth I had perchance been unable to conceive of them. Translated by E. B. Pusey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Miriam. Book X. CHAPTER XI. Wherefore we find, that to learn these things whereof we imbibe not the images by our senses, but perceive within by themselves, without images, as they are, is nothing else but by conception to receive, and by marking to take heed that those things which the memory did before, contain it random and unarranged, be laid up at hand as it were in the same memory, where before they lay unknown, scattered and neglected, and so readily occur to the mind familiarized to them. And how many things of this kind does my memory bear, which have been already found out, and as I said, placed as it were at hand, which we are said to have learned and come to know, which were I for some short space of time to cease to call to mind, they are again so buried and glide back as it were into the deeper recesses, that they must again, as if new, be thought out thence, for another abode they have none. But they must be drawn together again that they may be known, that is to say, they must as it were be collected together from their dispersion, whence the word cogitation is derived. For cogo, collect, and cogito, recollect, had the same relation to each other as ago and agito, facio and factito. But the mind hath appropriated to itself this word, cogitation, so that not what is collected anyhow, but what is re-collected, i.e., brought together in the mind, is properly said to be cogitated or thought upon. I have seen the lines of architects, the very finest, like a spider's thread, but those are still different, they are not the images of those lines which the eyes of flesh showed me. He knoweth them, whosoever without any conception whatsoever of a body, recognizes them within himself. I have perceived also the numbers of the things with which we number all the senses of my body, but those numbers wherewith we number are different, nor are they the images of these, and therefore they indeed are. Let him who sees them not, deride me for saying these things, and I will pity him while he derides me. CHAPTER XIII. All these things I remember, and how I learnt them I remember. Many things also most falsely objected against them have I heard and remember, which though they be false, yet it is not false that I remember them, and I remember also that I have discerned betwixt those truths and these falsehoods objected to them, and I perceive that the present discerning of these things is different from remembering that I often times discerned them when I often thought upon them. I both remember then to have often understood these things, and what I now discern and understand I lay up in my memory, that hereafter I may remember that I understood it now. So then I remember also to have remembered, as if hereafter I shall call to remembrance that I have now been able to remember these things by the force of memory shall I call it to remembrance. CHAPTER XIV. The same memory contains also the affections of my mind, not in the same manner that of my mind itself contains them, when it feels them, but far otherwise, according to a power of its own, for without rejoicing I remember myself to have joyed, and without sorrow do I recollect my past sorrow, and that I once feared I review without fear, and without desire to call to mind a past desire. Sometimes on the contrary, with joy do I remember my fore-past sorrow and with sorrow joy, which is not wonderful as to the body, for mind is one thing, body another. If I therefore with joy remember some past pain of the body, it is not so wonderful, but now seeing this very memory itself is mind, for when we give a thing in charge to be kept in memory we say, so that you keep it in mind, and when we forget we say, it did not come to my mind, and it slipped out of my mind, calling the memory itself the mind. This being so, how is it, that when with joy I remember my past sorrow the mind hath joy, the memory hath sorrow? The mind upon the joyfulness which is in it is joyful, yet the memory upon the sadness which is in it is not sad. Does the memory perchance not belong to the mind? Who will say so? The memory then is, as it were, the belly of the mind, and joy and sadness, like sweet and bitter food, which when committed to the memory are, as it were, passed into the belly, where they may be stowed but cannot taste, ridiculous it is to imagine these to be alike, and yet they are not utterly unlike. But behold, out of my memory I bring it when I say there before perturbations of the mind desire, joy, fear, sorrow, and whatsoever I can dispute thereon, by dividing each into its subordinate species, and by defining it in my memory find I what to say, and thence do I bring it, yet am I not disturbed by any of these perturbations when by calling them to mind I remember them? Yea, and before I recalled and brought them back they were there, and therefore could they by recollection thence be brought. For chance then, as meet is by chewing the cud brought up out of the belly, so by recollection of these out of the memory. Why then does not the disputer, thus recollecting, taste in the mouth of his musing the sweetness of joy, the bitterness of sorrow? Is the comparison unlike in this, because not in all respects like? For who would willingly speak thereof, if so oft as we name grief or fear we should be compelled to be sad or fearful? And yet could we not speak of them? Did we not find in our memory not only the sounds of the names according to the images impressed by the senses of the body, but notions of the very things themselves which we never received by any avenue of the body, but which the mind itself perceiving by the experience of its own passions committed to the memory, or the memory of itself retained without being committed unto it? But whether by images or know, who can readily say? Thus I name a stone, I name the sun, the things themselves not being present in my senses, but their images to my memory. I name a bodily pain, yet it is not present within me when nothing aches, yet unless its image were present in my memory I should not know what to say thereof, nor in discoursing discern pain from pleasure. I name bodily health, being sound in body, the thing itself present with me, yet unless its image also were present in my memory I could by no means recall what the sound of this name should signify, nor would the sick, when health were named, recognize what were spoken, unless the same image whereby the force of memory retained, although the thing itself were absent from the body. I name numbers whereby we number, and not their images, but themselves are present in my memory. I name the image of the sun, and that image is present in my memory, for I recall not the image of its image, but the image itself is present in me calling it to mind. I name memory, and I recognize what I name. And where do I recognize it, but in the memory itself? Is it also present to itself by its image, and not by itself? Chapter 16 What, when I name forgetfulness, and with all recognize what I name, when should I recognize it, did I not remember it? I speak not of the sound of the name, but of the thing which it signifies, which if I had forgotten I could not recognize what that sound signifies. When then I remember memory, memory itself is, through itself, present with itself, but when I remember forgetfulness there are present both memory and forgetfulness, memory whereby I remember forgetfulness which I remember. But what is forgetfulness, but the privation of memory? How then is it present that I remember it, since when present I cannot remember? But if what we remember we hold it in memory, yet unless we did remember forgetfulness, we could never at the hearing of the name recognize the thing thereby signified, then forgetfulness is retained by memory. Present then it is that we forget not, and being so we forget. It is to be understood from this that forgetfulness, when we remember it, is not present to the memory by itself, but by its image, because if it were present by itself it would not cause us to remember, but to forget. Who now shall search out this? Who shall comprehend how it is? Lord, I truly toil therein, yea and toil in myself. I am become a heavy soil requiring over much sweat of the brow. For we are not now searching out the regions of heaven or measuring the distances of the stars or inquiring the balancings of the earth. It is I myself who remember, I the mind. It is not so wonderful if what I myself am not be far from me. But what is nearer to me than myself? And though the force of my own memory is not understood by me, though I cannot so much as name myself without it, for what should I say when it is clear to me that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I say that it is not my memory which I remember, or shall I say that forgetfulness is for this purpose in my memory that I might not forget? Both were most absurd. What third way is there? How can I say that the image of forgetfulness is retained by my memory, not forgetfulness itself, when I remember it? How could I say this, either, seeing that when the image of anything is impressed on the memory, the thing itself must needs be first present whence that image may be impressed? For thus do I remember Carthage, thus all places where I have been, thus men's faces whom I have seen, and things reported by the other senses, thus the health or sickness of the body? For when these things were present my memory received them from images which, being present with me, I might look on and bring back to my mind, when I remembered them in their absence. If then this forgetfulness is retained in the memory through its image, not through itself, then plainly itself was once present, that its image might be taken. But when it was present, how did it write its image in the memory, seeing that forgetfulness by its presence afaces even what it finds already noted? And yet, in whatever way, although that way be past conceiving and explaining, yet certain M.I. that I remember forgetfulness itself also, whereby what we remember is afaced? CHAPTER XVII Great is the power of memory, a fearful thing, oh my God, a deep and boundless manifoldness, and this thing is the mind, and this M.I. myself. What M.I. then, oh my God, what nature M.I., a life various and manifold and exceeding immense, behold in the planes and caves and caverns of my memory innumerable and innumerably full of innumerable kinds of things, either through images as all bodies, or by actual presence as the arts, or by certain notions or impressions as the affections of the mind, which, even when the mind doth not feel, the memory retaineth. While yet whatever is in the memory is also in the mind, over all these do I run, I fly, I dive on this side and on that as far as I can, and there is no end. So great is the force of memory, so great the force of life, even in the mortal life of man. What shall I do then, oh thou my true life, my God? I will pass even beyond this power of mind which is called memory, yea I will pass beyond it that I may approach unto thee, oh sweet light. What sayest thou to me? See, I am mounting up through my mind towards thee who abidest above me, yea I now will pass beyond this power of mind which is called memory, desirous to arrive at thee, whence thou mayest be arrived at, and to cleave unto thee, whence one may cleave unto thee. For even beasts and birds have memory, else they could not return to their dens and nests, nor many other things they are used unto, nor indeed could they be used to anything but by memory. I will pass them beyond memory also, that I may arrive at him who hath separated me from the four-footed beasts and made me wiser than the fowls of the air. I will pass beyond memory also, and where shall I find thee, thou truly good and certain sweetness? And where shall I find thee, if I find thee without my memory, then do I not retain thee in my memory? And how shall I find thee, if I remember thee not? CHAPTER 18 For the woman that had lost her groat, and saught it with a light, unless she had remembered it she had never found it. For when it was found, whence should she know whether it were the same unless she remembered it? I remember to have sought and found many a thing, and this I thereby know, that when I was seeking any of them, and was asked, is this it? Is that it? So long said I know, until that were offered me which I sought, which I had not remembered, whatever it were, though it were offered me, yet should I not find it because I could not recognize it. And so it ever is, when we seek and find anything lost. Not withstanding, when anything is by chance lost from the sight, not from the memory, as any visible body, yet its image is still retained within, and it is sought until it be restored to sight, and when it is found it is recognized by the image which is within. Nor do we say that we have found what was lost unless we recognize it. Nor can we recognize it unless we remember it. But this was lost to the eyes, but retained in the memory. But what when the memory itself loses anything, as falls out when we forget and seek that we may recollect? Where in the end do we search but in the memory itself? And there, if one thing be perchance offered instead of another, we reject it, until what we seek meets us, and when it doth we say, this is it, which we should not unless we recognized it, nor recognize it unless we remembered it. Certainly then we had forgotten it, or had not the whole escaped us, but by the part whereof we had hold was the lost part sought for, in that the memory felt that it did not carry on together all which it was want, and maimed as it were by the curtailment of its ancient habit, demanded the restoration of what it missed. For instance, if we see or think of someone known to us, and having forgotten his name, try to recover it, whatever else occurs, connects itself not therewith, because it was not want to be thought upon together with him, and therefore is rejected, until that present itself were on the knowledge reposes equibly as its wanted object. And whence does that present itself but out of the memory itself? For even when we recognize it, on being reminded by another, it is thence it comes. For we do not believe it as something new, but upon recollection, allow what was named to be right. But were it utterly blotted out of the mind, we should not remember it even when reminded. For we have not as yet utterly forgotten that, which we remember ourselves to have forgotten. What then we have utterly forgotten, though lost, we cannot seek after. How then do I seek thee, O Lord? For when I seek thee, my God, I seek a happy life. I will seek thee that my soul may live. For my body liveth by my soul and my soul by thee. How then do I seek a happy life, seeing I have it not, until I can say, where I ought to say it, it is enough. How seek I it? By remembrance, as though I had forgotten it, remembering that I had forgotten it? Or desiring to learn it as a thing unknown, either never having known or so forgotten it, as not even to remember that I had forgotten it? Is not a happy life, what all will, and no one altogether wills it not? Where have they known it, that they so will it? Where seen it, that they so love it? Truly we have it, how I know not. Yea, there is another way, where in when one hath it, then he is happy, and there are who are blessed in hope. These have it in a lower kind, than they who have it in very deed. Yet are they better off than such as are happy neither in deed nor in hope? Yet even these, had they it not in some sort, would not so will to be happy, which that they do will is most certain. They have known it then, I know not how, and so have it by some sort of knowledge, what I know not, and am perplexed by whether it be in the memory, which if it be, then we have been happy once. Whether all severally, or in that man who first sinned, in whom also we all died, and from whom we are all born with misery, I now inquire not. But only, whether the happy life be in the memory. For neither should we love it, did we not know it. We hear the name, and we all confess that we desire the thing, for we are not delighted with the mere sound. For when a Greek hears it in Latin, he is not delighted, not knowing what is spoken. But we Latins are delighted, as would he too if he heard it in Greek. Because the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin, which Greeks and Latins, and men of all other tongues, long for so earnestly. Known therefore it is to all, for could they with one voice be asked, would they be happy? They would answer without doubt they would. And this could not be unless the thing itself, whereof it is the name, were retained in their memory. And Book 10, Chapter 20. But is it so, as one remembers Carthage, who hath seen it? No. For a happy life is not seen with the eye, because it is not a body. As we remember numbers then. No. For these he hath in his knowledge seeks not further to attain unto. But a happy life we have in our knowledge and therefore love it, and yet still desire to attain it that we may be happy. As we remember eloquence then. No. For although upon hearing this name also some call to mind the thing, who still are not yet eloquent, and many who desire to be so, whence it appears that it is in their knowledge. Yet these have by their bodily senses observed others to be eloquent and been delighted, and desire to be the like. Though indeed they would not be delighted but for some inward knowledge thereof, nor wish to be the like, unless they were thus delighted. Where as a happy life we do by no bodily sense experience in others. As we remember joy. Perchance, for my joy I remember even when sad. As a happy life when unhappy. Nor did I ever with bodily sense see, hear, smell, taste, or touch my joy, but I experienced it in my mind when I rejoiced, and the knowledge of it clave to my memory, so that I can recall it with disgust sometimes, at others with longing according to the nature of the things wherein I remember myself to have joyed. For even from foul things have I been immersed in a sort of joy which now recalling I detest and excrate, otherwise in good and honest things which I recall with longing although perchance no longer present, and therefore with sadness I recall former joy. Where then and when did I experience my happy life that I should remember and love and long for it? Nor is it I alone, or some few besides, but we all would fame be happy, which, unless by some certain knowledge we knew, we should not with so certain a will desire. But how is this, that if two men be asked whether they would go to the wars, one perchance would answer that he would, the other that he would not, but if they were asked whether they would be happy, both would instantly without any doubting say they would, and for no other reason would the one go to the wars and the other not, but to be happy. Is it perchance that as one looks for his joy in this thing and another in that, all agree in their desire of being happy, as they would, if they were asked, that they wished to have joy and this joy they call a happy life? Although then one obtains this joy by one means, another by another, all have one end which they strive to attain, namely joy, which being a thing, which all must say they have experienced, is therefore found in the memory and recognized whenever the name of a happy life is mentioned. CHAPTER XXII Far be it, Lord, far be it from the heart of thy servant who here confesseth unto thee, far be it that, be the joy what it may, I should therefore think myself happy, for there is a joy which is not given to the ungodly but to those who love thee for thine own sake, whose joy thou thyself art, and this is the happy life, to rejoice to thee, of thee, for thee. This is it, and there is no other. For they who think that there is another, pursue some other and not the true joy, yet is not their will turned away from some semblance of joy. CHAPTER XXIII It is not certain, then, that all wish to be happy, in as much as they who wish not to joy in thee, which is the only happy life, do not truly desire the happy life. Or do all men desire this, but because the flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh that they cannot do what they would, they fall upon that which they can, and are content therewith, because what they are not able to do, they do not will so strongly as would suffice to make them able. For I ask anyone, had he rather joy in truth or falsehood, they will as little hesitate to say in truth as to say that they desire to be happy, for happy life is joy in the truth. For this is a joying in thee, who art the truth, O God, my light, health of my countenance, my God. This is the happy life which all desire, this life which alone is happy all desire, to joy in the truth all desire. I have met with many that would deceive, who would be deceived? No one. Where, then, did they know this happy life, save where they knew the truth also? For they love it also, since they would not be deceived, and when they love a happy life, which is no other than joying in the truth, then also do they love the truth, which yet they would not love, were there not some notice of it in their memory? Why then joy they not in it? Why are they not happy? Because they are more strongly taken up with other things which have more power to make them miserable than that which they so faintly remember to make them happy. For there is yet a little light in men, let them walk that the darkness overtake them not. But why doth truth generate hatred, and the man of thine, preaching the truth, become an enemy to them? Whereas a happy life is loved, which is nothing else but joying in the truth, unless that truth is in that kind loved, that they who love anything else would gladly have that which they love to be the truth, and because they would not be deceived, would not be convinced that they are so. Therefore do they hate the truth, for that things sake which they love instead of the truth. They love the truth when she enlightens, they hate her when she reproves, for since they would not be deceived, and would deceive, they love her when she discovers herself unto them, and hate her when she discovers them. Whence she shall so repay them, that they who would not be made manifest by her, she both against their will makes manifest, and herself becomeeth not manifest unto them. Thus, thus, yea thus doth the mind of man, thus blind and sick, foul and ill-favoured, wish to be hidden, but that ought should be hidden from it, it wills not. But the contrary is requited it, that itself should not be hidden from the truth, but the truth is hid from it. Yet even thus miserable, it had rather joy in truths than in falsehoods. Happy then will it be when, no distraction interposing, it shall joy in that only truth by whom all things are true. CHAPTER 24 See what space I have gone over in my memory seeking thee, O Lord, and I have not found thee without it, nor have I found anything concerning thee, but what I have kept in my memory ever since I learnt thee. For since I learnt thee I have not forgotten thee, for where I found truth there found I my mind, the truth itself, which since I learnt I have not forgotten. Since then I learnt thee thou resideth in my memory, and there do I find thee when I call thee to remembrance and delight in thee. These be my holy delights which thou hast given me in thy mercy, having regard to my poverty. CHAPTER 25 But where in my memory resideth thou, O Lord, where resideth thou there? What manner of lodging hast thou framed for thee? What manner of sanctuary hast thou builded for thee? Thou hast given this honour to my memory, to reside in it, but in what quarter of it thou resideth, that am I considering? For in thinking on thee I passed by such parts of it as the beasts also have, for I found thee not in there among the images of corporal things, and I came to those parts to which I committed the affections of my mind, nor found thee there, and I entered into the very seat of my mind, which it hath in my memory in as much as the mind remembers itself also. Neither were thou there, for as thou art not a corporal image nor the affection of a living being, as when we rejoice, condole, desire, fear, remember, forget, or the like, so neither art thou the mind itself, because thou art the Lord God of the mind, and all these things are changed, but thou remainest unchangeable over all, and yet hast thou saved to dwell in my memory since I learned thee? And why seek I now, in what place of thou dwellest, as if there were places therein? Sure I am, that in it thou dwellest, since I have remembered thee ever since I learned thee, and there I find thee when I call thee to remembrance. Where, then, did I find thee, that I might learn thee? For in my memory thou were not, before I learned thee. Where, then, did I find thee, that I might learn thee, but in thee above me? Place there is none. We go backward and forward, and there is no place. Everywhere, O truth, dost thou give audience to all who ask counsel of thee, and at once answereth all, though on manifold matters they ask thy counsel. Clearly dost thou answer, though all do not clearly hear. I'll consult thee on what they will, though they hear not always what they will. Here is thy best servant who looks not so much to hear that from thee which himself willed, as rather to will that which from thee he heareth. Chapter 27 Too late loved I thee, O thou beauty of ancient days, yet ever new. Too late I loved thee. And behold, thou worked within, and I abroad, and there I searched for thee. Deformed I, plunged amid those fair forms which thou hast made. Thou worked with me, but I was not with thee. Things held me far from thee, which, unless they were in thee, were not at all. Thou callest and shoutest and burstest my deafness. Thou flashest, shonest, and scatterst my blindness. Thou breathest odours, and I drew in breath and pant for thee. I tasted, and hunger and thirst. Thou touches me, and I burned for thy peace. Chapter 28 When I shall with my whole self cleave to thee, I shall nowhere have sorrow or labour, and my life shall wholly live, as wholly full of thee. But now since whom thou fillest, thou fillest up, because I am not full of thee, I am a burden unto myself. Lamentable joys strive with joy as sorrows, and on which side is the victory I know not? Woe is me! Lord have pity on me! My evil sorrows strive with my good joys, and on which side is the victory I know not? Woe is me! Lord have pity on me! Woe is me! Lo! I hide not my wounds! Thou art the physician, I the sick! Thou merciful, I miserable! Is not the life of man upon earth all trial? Who wishes for troubles and difficulties? Thou commandest them to be endured, not to be loved. No man loves what he endures, though he loved to endure. For though he rejoices that he endures, he had rather there was nothing for him to endure. In adversity I long for prosperity. In prosperity I fear adversity. What middle place is there betwixt these two, where the life of man is not all trial? Woe to the prosperities of the world, once and again, through fear of adversity and corruption of joy. Woe to the adversities of the world, once and again, and the third time, from the longing for prosperity, and because adversity itself is a hard thing, and lest it shatter endurance. Is not the life of man upon earth all trial without any interval? Chapter 29 And all my hope is nowhere but in thy exceeding great mercy. Give what thou enjoinest, and enjoin what thou wilt. Thou enjoinest in us, continency. And when I knew, seeth one, that no man can be continent, unless God give it, this also was a part of wisdom, to know whose gift she is. By continency, verily, are we bound up and brought back into one, whence we were dissipated into many. For too little doth he love thee, who loves anything with thee, which he loveth not for thee. O love, whoever burnest and never consumest, O charity, my God, kindle me. Thou enjoinest continency, give me what thou enjoinest, and enjoin what thou wilt. Chapter 30 Verily, thou enjoinest me, continency, from the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the ambition of the world. Thou enjoinest continency, from concubinage, and for wedlock itself. Thou hast counseled something better than what thou hast permitted. And since thou gavest it, it was done even before I became a dispenser of thy sacrament. But there yet live in my memory, whereof I have much spoken, the images of such things, as my ill custom there fixed, which haunt me, strengthless when I am awake, but in sleep, not only so as to give pleasure, but even to obtain assent, and which is very like reality. Yet so far prevails the illusion of the image in my soul and in my flesh that, when asleep, false visions persuade to that which when waking the true cannot. Am I not then myself, O Lord my God? And yet there is so much difference betwixt myself and myself, within that moment wherein I pass from waking to sleeping, or return from sleeping to waking. Where is reason then, which, awake, resisteth such suggestions? And should the things themselves be urged upon it, it remaineth unshaken? Is it clasped up with the eyes? Is it lulled asleep with the senses of the body? And whence is it that often, even in sleep, we resist, and mindful of our purpose, and abiding most chastely in it, yield no assent to such enticements? And yet so much difference there is, that when it happeneth otherwise, upon waking we return to peace of conscience, and by this very difference discover that we did not, what yet we be sorry that in some way it was done in us. Art thou not mighty, God Almighty, so as to heal all the diseases of my soul, and by thy more abundant grace to quench even the impure motions of my sleep? Thou wilt increase, Lord, thy gifts more and more in me, that my soul may follow me to thee, disentangled from the bird-lime of concupiscence, that it rebel not against itself, and even in dreams not only not, through images of sense, commit those debasing corruptions, even to pollution of the flesh, but not even to consent unto them. For that nothing of this sort should have, over the pure affections even of a sleeper, the very least influence, not even such as a thought would restrain. To work this, not only during life, but even at my present age, is not hard for the Almighty, who art able to do all things that we ask or think. But what I yet am in this kind of my evil, I have confessed unto my good Lord, rejoicing with trembling, in that which thou hast given me, and bemoaning that wherein I am still imperfect, hoping that thou wilt perfect thy mercies in me, even to perfect peace, which my outward and inward man shall have with thee, when death shall be swallowed up in victory.