BOOK X

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

doth it, cometh to the light. This would I do in my heart before Thee in

confession: and in my writing, before many witnesses.

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, 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, blessest the godly, but first Thou justifieth him when

ungodly. My confession then, O my 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 any thing right unto men, which Thou hast

not before heard from me; nor dost Thou hear any such thing from me,

which Thou hast not first said unto me.

What then have I to do with men, that they should hear my

confessions--as if they could heal all 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 saith, "It is false," unless

himself lieth? But because charity believeth all things (that is, among

those whom knitting unto itself it maketh 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 innocency,

with what fruit, I pray, do I by this book confess to men also in Thy

presence what I now am, not what I have been? For that other fruit I

have seen and spoken of. But what I now am, at the very time of making

these confessions, divers 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;

whither 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 joy 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 it approveth,

rejoiceth for me, and when it disapproveth me, is sorry for me; because

whether it approveth or disapproveth, 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 offences, 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 censers. 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 name's sake; and no ways

forsaking 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 Thee only, in a secret exultation 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 in 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 were little

did it only command by speaking, and not go before in performing. This

then I do in deed 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, but 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, Almighty,

Who are 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.

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, 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 know I Thee that Thou art in no ways passible; 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 noon-day 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 manna 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 disperseth not, and there tasteth what eating

diminisheth not, and there clingeth what satiety divorceth not. This is

it 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

deeps, 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

his inhabitants answered, "Anaximenes 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 encompass the

door of my flesh: "Ye have told me of my God, that ye are not He; tell

me something of Him." And they cried out with a 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 me soul, and body, one without, the other within.

By 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, the beams

of mine 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 way 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 saith unto me, "Neither heaven, nor earth, nor any

other body is thy God." This, their very nature saith to him that seeth

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.

What then do I love, when I love my God? who is He above the head of

my soul? By my very soul will I 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 horse 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 divers, I the one mind, do through them enact. I will pass beyond

this power of mine also; for this also have the horse, and mule, for

they also perceive through the body.

I will pass then 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 sense 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 up 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 colours 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; or rugged; heavy or

light; either outwardly or inwardly to the body. All these doth that

great harbour of the memory receive in 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, for thought 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 colours, if I will, and discern

betwixt 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 colours, which notwithstanding be there, intrude

themselves and interrupt, when another store is called for, which

flowed in by the ears. So the other things, piled in and up by the other

senses, I recall at my pleasure. Yea, 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 other's credit. Out of the same store do I myself with the 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." "O that this or that

might be!" "God avert this or that!" So speak I 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, were the images

wanting.

Great is this force of memory, excessive great, O my God; a large and

boundless chamber! who ever sounded 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 strait 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 ocean, and the

circuits 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 believe

to be, inwardly in my memory, and that, with the same vast spaces

between, as if 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.

Yet not 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, what the art of disputing, how many kinds of questions there

be, whatsoever of these I know, in such manner exists in my memory, as

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 air

affects the sense of smell, whence it conveys into the memory an 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 manner

tasteth; or as any thing which the body by touch perceiveth, and which

when removed from us, the memory still conceives. For those 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 it is? of what kind it is?" I do indeed hold the images

of the sounds of which those words be composed, and that those sounds,

with a noise passed through the air, and now are not. But the 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 coloured, we reported of 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

savour, ask me not." The touch says, "If it have not size, 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 recognised 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, did I

acknowledge them, and said, "So is it, 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?

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 at random and unarranged, be laid up at hand as it were in that

same memory where before they lay unknown, scattered and neglected, and

so readily occur to the mind familiarised 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 other 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 (re-collect) have 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" any how, but what is "recollected," i.e., brought together,

in the mind, is properly said to be cogitated, or thought upon.

The memory containeth also reasons and laws innumerable of numbers and

dimensions, none of which hath any bodily sense impressed; seeing they

have neither colour, nor sound, nor taste, nor smell, nor touch. I have

heard the sound of the words whereby when discussed they are denoted:

but the sounds are other than the things. For the sounds are other in

Greek than in Latin; but the things are neither Greek, nor Latin,

nor any other language. 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 eye of flesh showed me: he

knoweth them, whosoever without any conception whatsoever of a body,

recognises 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 seeth them not, deride me for

saying these things, and I will pity him, while he derides me.

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 is it 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 oftentimes 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 understand 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.

The same memory contains also the affections of my mind, not in the same

manner that 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 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 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, "See 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 are they not utterly unlike.

But, behold, out of my memory I bring it, when I say there be four

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. Perchance, then, as meat is by chewing

the cud brought up out of the belly, so by recollection these out of the

memory. Why then does not the disputer, thus recollecting, taste in the

mouth of his musing the sweetness of joy, or 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 no, who can readily say? Thus, I name a stone,

I name the sun, the things themselves not being present to my senses,

but their images to my memory. I name a bodily pain, yet it is not

present with me, when nothing aches: yet unless its image were present

to 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 is 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,

recognise what were spoken, unless the same image were by 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 to me, calling it to mind. I name memory, and

I recognise what I name. And where do I recognise it, but in the memory

itself? Is it also present to itself by its image, and not by itself?

What, when I name forgetfulness, and withal recognise what I name?

whence should I recognise 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 recognise 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

recognise 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 enquiring 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 lo, the force

of mine own memory is not understood by me; though I cannot so much as

name myself without it. For what shall I say, when it is clear to

me that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I say that that is not in 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 any thing 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 from

them images, which being present with me, I might look on and bring

back in 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 effaces even what it

finds already noted? And yet, in whatever way, although that way be

past conceiving and explaining, yet certain am I that I remember

forgetfulness itself also, whereby what we remember is effaced.

Great is the power of memory, a fearful thing, O my God, a deep and

boundless manifoldness; and this thing is the mind, and this am I

myself. What am I then, O my God? What nature am I? A life various and

manifold, and exceeding immense. Behold in the plains, 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 whatsoever 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, O Thou my true life, my God? I will pass even beyond this power

of mine which is called memory: yea, I will pass beyond it, that I may

approach unto Thee, O 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 mine 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 could they not return to their dens and nests, nor many

other things they are used unto: nor indeed could they be used to any

thing, but by memory. I will pass then 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?

For the woman that had lost her groat, and sought 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 "No," until that were offered

me which I sought. Which had I not remembered (whatever it were) though

it were offered me, yet should I not find it, because I could not

recognise it. And so it ever is, when we seek and find any lost thing.

Notwithstanding, when any thing 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 recognised by the image which is within: nor do we say

that we have found what was lost, unless we recognise it; nor can we

recognise it, unless we remember it. But this was lost to the eyes, but

retained in the memory.

But what when the memory itself loses any thing, 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 recognised

it, nor recognise 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 wont, 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 some one known

to us, and having forgotten his name, try to recover it; whatever else

occurs, connects itself not therewith; because it was not wont to be

thought upon together with him, and therefore is rejected, until that

present itself, whereon the knowledge reposes equably as its wonted

object. And whence does that present itself, but out of the memory

itself? for even when we recognise 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 even 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, wherein when one hath it, then is he 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 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 enquire 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 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.

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 that 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);

whereas a happy life, we do by no bodily sense experience in others. As

then 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 execrate; otherwhiles 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 fain 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, 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, it is

therefore found in the memory, and recognised whenever the name of a

happy life is mentioned.

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

there is another, pursue some other and not the true joy. Yet is not

their will turned away from some semblance of joy.

It is not certain then that all wish to be happy, inasmuch 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 any

one, had he rather joy in truth, or in falsehood? They will as little

hesitate to say "in the truth," as to say "that they desire to be

happy," for a 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 know 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, 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 thing's sake which they loved instead of the truth. They

love 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 becometh

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 aught

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.

See what a space I have gone over in my memory seeking Thee, O Lord; and

I have not found Thee, without it. Nor have I found any thing concerning

Thee, but what I have kept in 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 God, the Truth itself; which since I learnt, I have

not forgotten. Since then I learnt Thee, Thou residest 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.

But where in my memory residest Thou, O Lord, where residest 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 residest, that

am I considering. For in thinking on Thee, I passed beyond such parts of

it as the beasts also have, for I found Thee not there among the images

of corporeal 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, inasmuch as the mind

remembers itself also), neither wert Thou there: for as Thou art not

a corporeal 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 are changed, but Thou remainest unchangeable over

all, and yet hast vouchsafed to dwell in my memory, since I learnt Thee.

And why seek I now in what place thereof Thou dwellest, as if there

were places therein? Sure I am, that in it Thou dwellest, since I have

remembered Thee ever since I learnt 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 wert 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. Every where, O Truth, dost

Thou give audience to all who ask counsel of Thee, and at once answerest

all, though on manifold matters they ask Thy counsel. Clearly dost Thou

answer, though all do not clearly hear. All consult Thee on what they

will, though they hear not always what they will. He is Thy best servant

who looks not so much to hear that from Thee which himself willeth, as

rather to will that, which from Thee he heareth.

Too late loved I Thee, O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new! too

late I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within, and I abroad, and there

I searched for Thee; deformed I, plunging amid those fair forms which

Thou hadst made. Thou wert 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 calledst, and shoutedst, and burstest my deafness. Thou flashedst,

shonest, and scatteredst my blindness. Thou breathedst odours, and I

drew in breath and panted for Thee. I tasted, and hunger and thirst.

Thou touchedst me, and I burned for Thy peace.

When I shall with my whole self cleave to Thee, I shall no where have

sorrow or labour; and my life shall wholly live, as wholly full of Thee.

But now since whom Thou fillest, Thou liftest up, because I am not full

of Thee I am a burden to myself. Lamentable joys strive with joyous

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 love

to endure. For though he rejoices that he endures, he had rather there

were 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?

And all my hope is no where but in Thy exceeding great mercy. Give what

Thou enjoinest, and enjoin what Thou wilt. Thou enjoinest us continency;

and when I knew, saith 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

any thing with Thee, which he loveth not for Thee. O love, who ever

burnest and never consumest! O charity, my God, kindle me. Thou

enjoinest continency: give me what Thou enjoinest, and enjoin what Thou

wilt.

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 counselled 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 what is very like reality. Yea, 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 on 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 birdlime 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 above all that

we ask or think. But what I yet am in this kind of my evil, have I

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.

There is another evil of the day, which I would were sufficient for it.

For by eating and drinking we repair the daily decays of our body, until

Thou destroy both belly and meat, when Thou shalt slay my emptiness

with a wonderful fulness, and clothe this incorruptible with an eternal

incorruption. But now the necessity is sweet unto me, against which

sweetness I fight, that I be not taken captive; and carry on a daily war

by fastings; often bringing my body into subjection; and my pains are

removed by pleasure. For hunger and thirst are in a manner pains; they

burn and kill like a fever, unless the medicine of nourishments come

to our aid. Which since it is at hand through the consolations of Thy

gifts, with which land, and water, and air serve our weakness, our

calamity is termed gratification.

This hast Thou taught me, that I should set myself to take food as

physic. But while I am passing from the discomfort of emptiness to the

content of replenishing, in the very passage the snare of concupiscence

besets me. For that passing, is pleasure, nor is there any other way to

pass thither, whither we needs must pass. And health being the cause of

eating and drinking, there joineth itself as an attendant a dangerous

pleasure, which mostly endeavours to go before it, so that I may for her

sake do what I say I do, or wish to do, for health's sake. Nor have

each the same measure; for what is enough for health, is too little for

pleasure. And oft it is uncertain, whether it be the necessary care of

the body which is yet asking for sustenance, or whether a voluptuous

deceivableness of greediness is proffering its services. In this

uncertainty the unhappy soul rejoiceth, and therein prepares an excuse

to shield itself, glad that it appeareth not what sufficeth for the

moderation of health, that under the cloak of health, it may disguise

the matter of gratification. These temptations I daily endeavour

to resist, and I call on Thy right hand, and to Thee do I refer my

perplexities; because I have as yet no settled counsel herein.

I hear the voice of my God commanding, Let not your hearts be

overcharged with surfeiting and drunkenness. Drunkenness is far from

me; Thou wilt have mercy, that it come not near me. But full feeding

sometimes creepeth upon Thy servant; Thou wilt have mercy, that it may

be far from me. For no one can be continent unless Thou give it. Many

things Thou givest us, praying for them; and what good soever we have

received before we prayed, from Thee we received it; yea to the end we

might afterwards know this, did we before receive it. Drunkard was I

never, but drunkards have I known made sober by Thee. From Thee then it

was, that they who never were such, should not so be, as from Thee it

was, that they who have been, should not ever so be; and from Thee it

was, that both might know from Whom it was. I heard another voice of

Thine, Go not after thy lusts, and from thy pleasure turn away. Yea by

Thy favour have I heard that which I have much loved; neither if we eat,

shall we abound; neither if we eat not, shall we lack; which is to say,

neither shall the one make me plenteous, nor the other miserable.

I heard also another, for I have learned in whatsoever state I am,

therewith to be content; I know how to abound, and how to suffer need. I

can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me. Behold a soldier

of the heavenly camp, not the dust which we are. But remember, Lord,

that we are dust, and that of dust Thou hast made man; and he was lost

and is found. Nor could he of himself do this, because he whom I so

loved, saying this through the in-breathing of Thy inspiration, was

of the same dust. I can do all things (saith he) through Him that

strengtheneth me. Strengthen me, that I can. Give what Thou enjoinest,

and enjoin what Thou wilt. He confesses to have received, and when he

glorieth, in the Lord he glorieth. Another have I heard begging that he

might receive. Take from me (saith he) the desires of the belly; whence

it appeareth, O my holy God, that Thou givest, when that is done which

Thou commandest to be done.

Thou hast taught me, good Father, that to the pure, all things are pure;

but that it is evil unto the man that eateth with offence; and, that

every creature of Thine is good, and nothing to be refused, which is

received with thanksgiving; and that meat commendeth us not to God; and,

that no man should judge us in meat or drink; and, that he which eateth,

let him not despise him that eateth not; and let not him that eateth

not, judge him that eateth. These things have I learned, thanks be

to Thee, praise to Thee, my God, my Master, knocking at my ears,

enlightening my heart; deliver me out of all temptation. I fear not

uncleanness of meat, but the uncleanness of lusting. I know; that Noah

was permitted to eat all kind of flesh that was good for food; that

Elijah was fed with flesh; that endued with an admirable abstinence, was

not polluted by feeding on living creatures, locusts. I know also that

Esau was deceived by lusting for lentiles; and that David blamed himself

for desiring a draught of water; and that our King was tempted, not

concerning flesh, but bread. And therefore the people in the wilderness

also deserved to be reproved, not for desiring flesh, but because, in

the desire of food, they murmured against the Lord.

Placed then amid these temptations, I strive daily against concupiscence

in eating and drinking. For it is not of such nature that I can settle

on cutting it off once for all, and never touching it afterward, as

I could of concubinage. The bridle of the throat then is to be held

attempered between slackness and stiffness. And who is he, O Lord, who

is not some whit transported beyond the limits of necessity? whoever he

is, he is a great one; let him make Thy Name great. But I am not such,

for I am a sinful man. Yet do I too magnify Thy name; and He maketh

intercession to Thee for my sins who hath overcome the world; numbering

me among the weak members of His body; because Thine eyes have seen that

of Him which is imperfect, and in Thy book shall all be written.

With the allurements of smells, I am not much concerned. When absent, I

do not miss them; when present, I do not refuse them; yet ever ready to

be without them. So I seem to myself; perchance I am deceived. For that

also is a mournful darkness whereby my abilities within me are hidden

from me; so that my mind making enquiry into herself of her own powers,

ventures not readily to believe herself; because even what is in it

is mostly hidden, unless experience reveal it. And no one ought to be

secure in that life, the whole whereof is called a trial, that he who

hath been capable of worse to be made better, may not likewise of better

be made worse. Our only hope, only confidence, only assured promise is

Thy mercy.

The delights of the ear had more firmly entangled and subdued me; but

Thou didst loosen and free me. Now, in those melodies which Thy words

breathe soul into, when sung with a sweet and attuned voice, I do

a little repose; yet not so as to be held thereby, but that I can

disengage myself when I will. But with the words which are their

life and whereby they find admission into me, themselves seek in my

affections a place of some estimation, and I can scarcely assign them

one suitable. For at one time I seem to myself to give them more honour

than is seemly, feeling our minds to be more holily and fervently raised

unto a flame of devotion, by the holy words themselves when thus sung,

than when not; and that the several affections of our spirit, by a sweet

variety, have their own proper measures in the voice and singing, by

some hidden correspondence wherewith they are stirred up. But this

contentment of the flesh, to which the soul must not be given over to be

enervated, doth oft beguile me, the sense not so waiting upon reason as

patiently to follow her; but having been admitted merely for her sake,

it strives even to run before her, and lead her. Thus in these things I

unawares sin, but afterwards am aware of it.

At other times, shunning over-anxiously this very deception, I err in

too great strictness; and sometimes to that degree, as to wish the whole

melody of sweet music which is used to David's Psalter, banished from

my ears, and the Church's too; and that mode seems to me safer, which I

remember to have been often told me of Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria,

who made the reader of the psalm utter it with so slight inflection

of voice, that it was nearer speaking than singing. Yet again, when

I remember the tears I shed at the Psalmody of Thy Church, in the

beginning of my recovered faith; and how at this time I am moved, not

with the singing, but with the things sung, when they are sung with a

clear voice and modulation most suitable, I acknowledge the great use

of this institution. Thus I fluctuate between peril of pleasure and

approved wholesomeness; inclined the rather (though not as pronouncing

an irrevocable opinion) to approve of the usage of singing in the

church; that so by the delight of the ears the weaker minds may rise to

the feeling of devotion. Yet when it befalls me to be more moved with

the voice than the words sung, I confess to have sinned penally, and

then had rather not hear music. See now my state; weep with me, and weep

for me, ye, whoso regulate your feelings within, as that good action

ensues. For you who do not act, these things touch not you. But Thou, O

Lord my God, hearken; behold, and see, and have mercy and heal me, Thou,

in whose presence I have become a problem to myself; and that is my

infirmity.

There remains the pleasure of these eyes of my flesh, on which to make

my confessions in the hearing of the ears of Thy temple, those brotherly

and devout ears; and so to conclude the temptations of the lust of

the flesh, which yet assail me, groaning earnestly, and desiring to be

clothed upon with my house from heaven. The eyes love fair and varied

forms, and bright and soft colours. Let not these occupy my soul; let

God rather occupy it, who made these things, very good indeed, yet is

He my good, not they. And these affect me, waking, the whole day, nor

is any rest given me from them, as there is from musical, sometimes in

silence, from all voices. For this queen of colours, the light, bathing

all which we behold, wherever I am through the day, gliding by me in

varied forms, soothes me when engaged on other things, and not observing

it. And so strongly doth it entwine itself, that if it be suddenly

withdrawn, it is with longing sought for, and if absent long, saddeneth

the mind.

O Thou Light, which Tobias saw, when, these eyes closed, he taught his

son the way of life; and himself went before with the feet of charity,

never swerving. Or which Isaac saw, when his fleshly eyes being heavy

and closed by old age, it was vouchsafed him, not knowingly, to bless

his sons, but by blessing to know them. Or which Jacob saw, when he

also, blind through great age, with illumined heart, in the persons of

his sons shed light on the different races of the future people, in

them foresignified; and laid his hands, mystically crossed, upon

his grandchildren by Joseph, not as their father by his outward eye

corrected them, but as himself inwardly discerned. This is the light, it

is one, and all are one, who see and love it. But that corporeal light

whereof I spake, it seasoneth the life of this world for her blind

lovers, with an enticing and dangerous sweetness. But they who know how

to praise Thee for it, "O all-creating Lord," take it up in Thy hymns,

and are not taken up with it in their sleep. Such would I be. These

seductions of the eyes I resist, lest my feet wherewith I walk upon Thy

way be ensnared; and I lift up mine invisible eyes to Thee, that Thou

wouldest pluck my feet out of the snare. Thou dost ever and anon pluck

them out, for they are ensnared. Thou ceasest not to pluck them out,

while I often entangle myself in the snares on all sides laid; because

Thou that keepest Israel shalt neither slumber nor sleep.

What innumerable toys, made by divers arts and manufactures, in our

apparel, shoes, utensils and all sorts of works, in pictures also and

divers images, and these far exceeding all necessary and moderate use

and all pious meaning, have men added to tempt their own eyes withal;

outwardly following what themselves make, inwardly forsaking Him by whom

themselves were made, and destroying that which themselves have been

made! But I, my God and my Glory, do hence also sing a hymn to Thee, and

do consecrate praise to Him who consecrateth me, because those beautiful

patterns which through men's souls are conveyed into their cunning

hands, come from that Beauty, which is above our souls, which my soul

day and night sigheth after. But the framers and followers of the

outward beauties derive thence the rule of judging of them, but not of

using them. And He is there, though they perceive Him not, that so they

might not wander, but keep their strength for Thee, and not scatter it

abroad upon pleasurable weariness. And I, though I speak and see this,

entangle my steps with these outward beauties; but Thou pluckest me out,

O Lord, Thou pluckest me out; because Thy loving-kindness is before my

eyes. For I am taken miserably, and Thou pluckest me out mercifully;

sometimes not perceiving it, when I had but lightly lighted upon them;

otherwhiles with pain, because I had stuck fast in them.

To this is added another form of temptation more manifoldly dangerous.

For besides that concupiscence of the flesh which consisteth in the

delight of all senses and pleasures, wherein its slaves, who go far from

Thee, waste and perish, the soul hath, through the same senses of the

body, a certain vain and curious desire, veiled under the title of

knowledge and learning, not of delighting in the flesh, but of making

experiments through the flesh. The seat whereof being in the appetite

of knowledge, and sight being the sense chiefly used for attaining

knowledge, it is in Divine language called The lust of the eyes. For, to

see, belongeth properly to the eyes; yet we use this word of the other

senses also, when we employ them in seeking knowledge. For we do not

say, hark how it flashes, or smell how it glows, or taste how it shines,

or feel how it gleams; for all these are said to be seen. And yet we

say not only, see how it shineth, which the eyes alone can perceive; but

also, see how it soundeth, see how it smelleth, see how it tasteth,

see how hard it is. And so the general experience of the senses, as

was said, is called The lust of the eyes, because the office of seeing,

wherein the eyes hold the prerogative, the other senses by way

of similitude take to themselves, when they make search after any

knowledge.

But by this may more evidently be discerned, wherein pleasure and

wherein curiosity is the object of the senses; for pleasure seeketh

objects beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savoury, soft; but curiosity,

for trial's sake, the contrary as well, not for the sake of suffering

annoyance, but out of the lust of making trial and knowing them. For

what pleasure hath it, to see in a mangled carcase what will make you

shudder? and yet if it be lying near, they flock thither, to be made

sad, and to turn pale. Even in sleep they are afraid to see it. As if

when awake, any one forced them to see it, or any report of its beauty

drew them thither! Thus also in the other senses, which it were long to

go through. From this disease of curiosity are all those strange sights

exhibited in the theatre. Hence men go on to search out the hidden

powers of nature (which is besides our end), which to know profits not,

and wherein men desire nothing but to know. Hence also, if with that

same end of perverted knowledge magical arts be enquired by. Hence also

in religion itself, is God tempted, when signs and wonders are demanded

of Him, not desired for any good end, but merely to make trial of.

In this so vast wilderness, full of snares and dangers, behold many of

them I have cut off, and thrust out of my heart, as Thou hast given me,

O God of my salvation. And yet when dare I say, since so many things of

this kind buzz on all sides about our daily life--when dare I say that

nothing of this sort engages my attention, or causes in me an idle

interest? True, the theatres do not now carry me away, nor care I to

know the courses of the stars, nor did my soul ever consult ghosts

departed; all sacrilegious mysteries I detest. From Thee, O Lord my God,

to whom I owe humble and single-hearted service, by what artifices

and suggestions doth the enemy deal with me to desire some sign! But I

beseech Thee by our King, and by our pure and holy country, Jerusalem,

that as any consenting thereto is far from me, so may it ever be further

and further. But when I pray Thee for the salvation of any, my end and

intention is far different. Thou givest and wilt give me to follow Thee

willingly, doing what Thou wilt.

Notwithstanding, in how many most petty and contemptible things is our

curiosity daily tempted, and how often we give way, who can recount? How

often do we begin as if we were tolerating people telling vain stories,

lest we offend the weak; then by degrees we take interest therein! I go

not now to the circus to see a dog coursing a hare; but in the field,

if passing, that coursing peradventure will distract me even from some

weighty thought, and draw me after it: not that I turn aside the body

of my beast, yet still incline my mind thither. And unless Thou, having

made me see my infirmity didst speedily admonish me either through the

sight itself by some contemplation to rise towards Thee, or altogether

to despise and pass it by, I dully stand fixed therein. What, when

sitting at home, a lizard catching flies, or a spider entangling them

rushing into her nets, oft-times takes my attention? Is the thing

different, because they are but small creatures? I go on from them to

praise Thee the wonderful Creator and Orderer of all, but this does not

first draw my attention. It is one thing to rise quickly, another not

to fall. And of such things is my life full; and my one hope is Thy

wonderful great mercy. For when our heart becomes the receptacle of such

things, and is overcharged with throngs of this abundant vanity, then

are our prayers also thereby often interrupted and distracted, and

whilst in Thy presence we direct the voice of our heart to Thine ears,

this so great concern is broken off by the rushing in of I know not what

idle thoughts. Shall we then account this also among things of slight

concernment, or shall aught bring us back to hope, save Thy complete

mercy, since Thou hast begun to change us?

And Thou knowest how far Thou hast already changed me, who first

healedst me of the lust of vindicating myself, that so Thou mightest

forgive all the rest of my iniquities, and heal all my infirmities,

and redeem life from corruption, and crown me with mercy and pity, and

satisfy my desire with good things: who didst curb my pride with Thy

fear, and tame my neck to Thy yoke. And now I bear it and it is light

unto me, because so hast Thou promised, and hast made it; and verily so

it was, and I knew it not, when I feared to take it.

But, O Lord, Thou alone Lord without pride, because Thou art the only

true Lord, who hast no lord; hath this third kind of temptation also

ceased from me, or can it cease through this whole life? To wish,

namely, to be feared and loved of men, for no other end, but that we

may have a joy therein which is no joy? A miserable life this and a foul

boastfulness! Hence especially it comes that men do neither purely love

nor fear Thee. And therefore dost Thou resist the proud, and givest

grace to the humble: yea, Thou thunderest down upon the ambitions of the

world, and the foundations of the mountains tremble. Because now certain

offices of human society make it necessary to be loved and feared of

men, the adversary of our true blessedness layeth hard at us, every

where spreading his snares of "well-done, well-done"; that greedily

catching at them, we may be taken unawares, and sever our joy from Thy

truth, and set it in the deceivingness of men; and be pleased at being

loved and feared, not for Thy sake, but in Thy stead: and thus having

been made like him, he may have them for his own, not in the bands of

charity, but in the bonds of punishment: who purposed to set his throne

in the north, that dark and chilled they might serve him, pervertedly

and crookedly imitating Thee. But we, O Lord, behold we are Thy little

flock; possess us as Thine, stretch Thy wings over us, and let us fly

under them. Be Thou our glory; let us be loved for Thee, and Thy word

feared in us. Who would be praised of men when Thou blamest, will not be

defended of men when Thou judgest; nor delivered when Thou condemnest.

But when--not the sinner is praised in the desires of his soul, nor he

blessed who doth ungodlily, but--a man is praised for some gift which

Thou hast given him, and he rejoices more at the praise for himself than

that he hath the gift for which he is praised, he also is praised, while

Thou dispraisest; better is he who praised than he who is praised. For

the one took pleasure in the gift of God in man; the other was better

pleased with the gift of man, than of God.

By these temptations we are assailed daily, O Lord; without ceasing are

we assailed. Our daily furnace is the tongue of men. And in this way

also Thou commandest us continence. Give what Thou enjoinest, and enjoin

what Thou wilt. Thou knowest on this matter the groans of my heart, and

the floods of mine eyes. For I cannot learn how far I am more cleansed

from this plague, and I much fear my secret sins, which Thine eyes know,

mine do not. For in other kinds of temptations I have some sort of means

of examining myself; in this, scarce any. For, in refraining my mind

from the pleasures of the flesh and idle curiosity, I see how much I

have attained to, when I do without them; foregoing, or not having them.

For then I ask myself how much more or less troublesome it is to me not

to have them? Then, riches, which are desired, that they may serve to

some one or two or all of the three concupiscences, if the soul cannot

discern whether, when it hath them, it despiseth them, they may be

cast aside, that so it may prove itself. But to be without praise,

and therein essay our powers, must we live ill, yea so abandonedly and

atrociously, that no one should know without detesting us? What greater

madness can be said or thought of? But if praise useth and ought to

accompany a good life and good works, we ought as little to forego its

company, as good life itself. Yet I know not whether I can well or ill

be without anything, unless it be absent.

What then do I confess unto Thee in this kind of temptation, O Lord?

What, but that I am delighted with praise, but with truth itself, more

than with praise? For were it proposed to me, whether I would, being

frenzied in error on all things, be praised by all men, or being

consistent and most settled in the truth be blamed by all, I see which

I should choose. Yet fain would I that the approbation of another should

not even increase my joy for any good in me. Yet I own, it doth increase

it, and not so only, but dispraise doth diminish it. And when I am

troubled at this my misery, an excuse occurs to me, which of what value

it is, Thou God knowest, for it leaves me uncertain. For since Thou hast

commanded us not continency alone, that is, from what things to refrain

our love, but righteousness also, that is, whereon to bestow it, and

hast willed us to love not Thee only, but our neighbour also; often,

when pleased with intelligent praise, I seem to myself to be pleased

with the proficiency or towardliness of my neighbour, or to be grieved

for evil in him, when I hear him dispraise either what he understands

not, or is good. For sometimes I am grieved at my own praise, either

when those things be praised in me, in which I mislike myself, or even

lesser and slight goods are more esteemed than they ought. But again how

know I whether I am therefore thus affected, because I would not have

him who praiseth me differ from me about myself; not as being influenced

by concern for him, but because those same good things which please me

in myself, please me more when they please another also? For some how I

am not praised when my judgment of myself is not praised; forasmuch

as either those things are praised, which displease me; or those more,

which please me less. Am I then doubtful of myself in this matter?

Behold, in Thee, O Truth, I see that I ought not to be moved at my own

praises, for my own sake, but for the good of my neighbour. And whether

it be so with me, I know not. For herein I know less of myself than of

Thee. I beseech now, O my God, discover to me myself also, that I may

confess unto my brethren, who are to pray for me, wherein I find myself

maimed. Let me examine myself again more diligently. If in my praise I

am moved with the good of my neighbour, why am I less moved if another

be unjustly dispraised than if it be myself? Why am I more stung by

reproach cast upon myself, than at that cast upon another, with the

same injustice, before me? Know I not this also? or is it at last that I

deceive myself, and do not the truth before Thee in my heart and tongue?

This madness put far from me, O Lord, lest mine own mouth be to me the

sinner's oil to make fat my head. I am poor and needy; yet best, while

in hidden groanings I displease myself, and seek Thy mercy, until what

is lacking in my defective state be renewed and perfected, on to that

peace which the eye of the proud knoweth not.

Yet the word which cometh out of the mouth, and deeds known to men,

bring with them a most dangerous temptation through the love of praise:

which, to establish a certain excellency of our own, solicits and

collects men's suffrages. It tempts, even when it is reproved by myself

in myself, on the very ground that it is reproved; and often glories

more vainly of the very contempt of vain-glory; and so it is no longer

contempt of vain-glory, whereof it glories; for it doth not contemn when

it glorieth.

Within also, within is another evil, arising out of a like temptation;

whereby men become vain, pleasing themselves in themselves, though they

please not, or displease or care not to please others. But pleasing

themselves, they much displease Thee, not only taking pleasure in things

not good, as if good, but in Thy good things, as though their own; or

even if as Thine, yet as though for their own merits; or even if as

though from Thy grace, yet not with brotherly rejoicing, but envying

that grace to others. In all these and the like perils and travails,

Thou seest the trembling of my heart; and I rather feel my wounds to be

cured by Thee, than not inflicted by me.

Where hast Thou not walked with me, O Truth, teaching me what to beware,

and what to desire; when I referred to Thee what I could discover

here below, and consulted Thee? With my outward senses, as I might, I

surveyed the world, and observed the life, which my body hath from me,

and these my senses. Thence entered I the recesses of my memory, those

manifold and spacious chambers, wonderfully furnished with innumerable

stores; and I considered, and stood aghast; being able to discern

nothing of these things without Thee, and finding none of them to be

Thee. Nor was I myself, who found out these things, who went over them

all, and laboured to distinguish and to value every thing according

to its dignity, taking some things upon the report of my senses,

questioning about others which I felt to be mingled with myself,

numbering and distinguishing the reporters themselves, and in the large

treasure-house of my memory revolving some things, storing up others,

drawing out others. Nor yet was I myself when I did this, i.e., that my

power whereby I did it, neither was it Thou, for Thou art the abiding

light, which I consulted concerning all these, whether they were,

what they were, and how to be valued; and I heard Thee directing and

commanding me; and this I often do, this delights me, and as far as I

may be freed from necessary duties, unto this pleasure have I recourse.

Nor in all these which I run over consulting Thee can I find any safe

place for my soul, but in Thee; whither my scattered members may

be gathered, and nothing of me depart from Thee. And sometimes Thou

admittest me to an affection, very unusual, in my inmost soul; rising to

a strange sweetness, which if it were perfected in me, I know not what

in it would not belong to the life to come. But through my miserable

encumbrances I sink down again into these lower things, and am swept

back by former custom, and am held, and greatly weep, but am greatly

held. So much doth the burden of a bad custom weigh us down. Here I can

stay, but would not; there I would, but cannot; both ways, miserable.

Thus then have I considered the sicknesses of my sins in that threefold

concupiscence, and have called Thy right hand to my help. For with a

wounded heart have I beheld Thy brightness, and stricken back I said,

"Who can attain thither? I am cast away from the sight of Thine eyes."

Thou art the Truth who presidest over all, but I through my covetousness

would not indeed forego Thee, but would with Thee possess a lie; as no

man would in such wise speak falsely, as himself to be ignorant of the

truth. So then I lost Thee, because Thou vouchsafest not to be possessed

with a lie.

Whom could I find to reconcile me to Thee? was I to have recourse to

Angels? by what prayers? by what sacraments? Many endeavouring to return

unto Thee, and of themselves unable, have, as I hear, tried this, and

fallen into the desire of curious visions, and been accounted worthy

to be deluded. For they, being high minded, sought Thee by the pride of

learning, swelling out rather than smiting upon their breasts, and so

by the agreement of their heart, drew unto themselves the princes of the

air, the fellow-conspirators of their pride, by whom, through magical

influences, they were deceived, seeking a mediator, by whom they might

be purged, and there was none. For the devil it was, transforming

himself into an Angel of light. And it much enticed proud flesh, that he

had no body of flesh. For they were mortal, and sinners; but thou, Lord,

to whom they proudly sought to be reconciled, art immortal, and without

sin. But a mediator between God and man must have something like to God,

something like to men; lest being in both like to man, he should be

far from God: or if in both like God, too unlike man: and so not be a

mediator. That deceitful mediator then, by whom in Thy secret judgments

pride deserved to be deluded, hath one thing in common with man, that

is sin; another he would seem to have in common with God; and not being

clothed with the mortality of flesh, would vaunt himself to be immortal.

But since the wages of sin is death, this hath he in common with men,

that with them he should be condemned to death.

But the true Mediator, Whom in Thy secret mercy Thou hast showed to the

humble, and sentest, that by His example also they might learn that

same humility, that Mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus,

appeared betwixt mortal sinners and the immortal just One; mortal with

men, just with God: that because the wages of righteousness is life and

peace, He might by a righteousness conjoined with God make void that

death of sinners, now made righteous, which He willed to have in common

with them. Hence He was showed forth to holy men of old; that so they,

through faith in His Passion to come, as we through faith of it passed,

might be saved. For as Man, He was a Mediator; but as the Word, not in

the middle between God and man, because equal to God, and God with God,

and together one God.

How hast Thou loved us, good Father, who sparedst not Thine only Son,

but deliveredst Him up for us ungodly! How hast Thou loved us, for whom

He that thought it no robbery to be equal with Thee, was made subject

even to the death of the cross, He alone, free among the dead, having

power to lay down His life, and power to take it again: for us to Thee

both Victor and Victim, and therefore Victor, because the Victim; for

us to Thee Priest and Sacrifice, and therefore Priest because the

Sacrifice; making us to Thee, of servants, sons by being born of Thee,

and serving us. Well then is my hope strong in Him, that Thou wilt heal

all my infirmities, by Him Who sitteth at Thy right hand and maketh

intercession for us; else should I despair. For many and great are my

infirmities, many they are, and great; but Thy medicine is mightier. We

might imagine that Thy Word was far from any union with man, and despair

of ourselves, unless He had been made flesh and dwelt among us.

Affrighted with my sins and the burden of my misery, I had cast in my

heart, and had purposed to flee to the wilderness: but Thou forbadest

me, and strengthenedst me, saying, Therefore Christ died for all, that

they which live may now no longer live unto themselves, but unto Him

that died for them. See, Lord, I cast my care upon Thee, that I may

live, and consider wondrous things out of Thy law. Thou knowest my

unskilfulness, and my infirmities; teach me, and heal me. He, Thine only

Son, in Whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge, hath

redeemed me with His blood. Let not the proud speak evil of me; because

I meditate on my ransom, and eat and drink, and communicate it; and

poor, desired to be satisfied from Him, amongst those that eat and are

satisfied, and they shall praise the Lord who seek Him.