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Title: The Confessions of St. Augustine

Author: Saint of Hippo Augustine

Translator: E. B. Pusey

Release date: June 1, 2002 [eBook #3296]
Most recently updated: May 5, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3296

Credits: Robert S. Munday

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
CONFESSIONS OF ST. AUGUSTINE ***

THE CONFESSIONS
OF
SAINT AUGUSTINE

By Saint Augustine

Bishop of Hippo

Translated by E. B. Pusey (Edward Bouverie)
AD 401

CONTENTS
BOOK I
BOOK II
BOOK III
BOOK IV
BOOK V
BOOK VI
BOOK VII
BOOK VIII
BOOK IX
BOOK X
BOOK XI

BOOK XII
BOOK XIII

BOOK I

Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power,
and Thy wisdom infinite. And Thee would man praise; man, but a particle
of Thy creation; man, that bears about him his mortality, the witness of his
sin, the witness that Thou resistest the proud: yet would man praise Thee;
he, but a particle of Thy creation. Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise;
for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in
Thee. Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on
Thee or to praise Thee? and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for
who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not,
may call on Thee as other than Thou art. Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee
that we may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have
not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher? and they that
seek the Lord shall praise Him: for they that seek shall find Him, and they
that find shall praise Him. I will seek Thee, Lord, by calling on Thee; and
will call on Thee, believing in Thee; for to us hast Thou been preached. My
faith, Lord, shall call on Thee, which Thou hast given me, wherewith Thou
hast inspired me, through the Incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry
of the Preacher.
And how shall I call upon my God, my God and Lord, since, when I call
for Him, I shall be calling Him to myself? and what room is there within
me, whither my God can come into me? whither can God come into me,
God who made heaven and earth? is there, indeed, O Lord my God, aught
in me that can contain Thee? do then heaven and earth, which Thou hast
made, and wherein Thou hast made me, contain Thee? or, because nothing
which exists could exist without Thee, doth therefore whatever exists
contain Thee? Since, then, I too exist, why do I seek that Thou shouldest
enter into me, who were not, wert Thou not in me? Why? because I am not
gone down in hell, and yet Thou art there also. For if I go down into hell,
Thou art there. I could not be then, O my God, could not be at all, wert
Thou not in me; or, rather, unless I were in Thee, of whom are all things, by

whom are all things, in whom are all things? Even so, Lord, even so.
Whither do I call Thee, since I am in Thee? or whence canst Thou enter into
me? for whither can I go beyond heaven and earth, that thence my God
should come into me, who hath said, I fill the heaven and the earth.
Do the heaven and earth then contain Thee, since Thou fillest them? or
dost Thou fill them and yet overflow, since they do not contain Thee? And
whither, when the heaven and the earth are filled, pourest Thou forth the
remainder of Thyself? or hast Thou no need that aught contain Thee, who
containest all things, since what Thou fillest Thou fillest by containing it?
for the vessels which Thou fillest uphold Thee not, since, though they were
broken, Thou wert not poured out. And when Thou art poured out on us,
Thou art not cast down, but Thou upliftest us; Thou art not dissipated, but
Thou gatherest us. But Thou who fillest all things, fillest Thou them with
Thy whole self? or, since all things cannot contain Thee wholly, do they
contain part of Thee? and all at once the same part? or each its own part, the
greater more, the smaller less? And is, then one part of Thee greater,
another less? or, art Thou wholly every where, while nothing contains Thee
wholly?
What art Thou then, my God? what, but the Lord God? For who is Lord
but the Lord? or who is God save our God? Most highest, most good, most
potent, most omnipotent; most merciful, yet most just; most hidden, yet
most present; most beautiful, yet most strong, stable, yet incomprehensible;
unchangeable, yet all-changing; never new, never old; all-renewing, and
bringing age upon the proud, and they know it not; ever working, ever at
rest; still gathering, yet nothing lacking; supporting, filling, and
overspreading; creating, nourishing, and maturing; seeking, yet having all
things. Thou lovest, without passion; art jealous, without anxiety; repentest,
yet grievest not; art angry, yet serene; changest Thy works, Thy purpose
unchanged; receivest again what Thou findest, yet didst never lose; never in
need, yet rejoicing in gains; never covetous, yet exacting usury. Thou
receivest over and above, that Thou mayest owe; and who hath aught that is
not Thine? Thou payest debts, owing nothing; remittest debts, losing
nothing. And what had I now said, my God, my life, my holy joy? or what
saith any man when he speaks of Thee? Yet woe to him that speaketh not,
since mute are even the most eloquent.

Oh! that I might repose on Thee! Oh! that Thou wouldest enter into my
heart, and inebriate it, that I may forget my ills, and embrace Thee, my sole
good! What art Thou to me? In Thy pity, teach me to utter it. Or what am I
to Thee that Thou demandest my love, and, if I give it not, art wroth with
me, and threatenest me with grievous woes? Is it then a slight woe to love
Thee not? Oh! for Thy mercies' sake, tell me, O Lord my God, what Thou
art unto me. Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. So speak, that I may hear.
Behold, Lord, my heart is before Thee; open Thou the ears thereof, and say
unto my soul, I am thy salvation. After this voice let me haste, and take hold
on Thee. Hide not Thy face from me. Let me die—lest I die—only let me
see Thy face.
Narrow is the mansion of my soul; enlarge Thou it, that Thou mayest
enter in. It is ruinous; repair Thou it. It has that within which must offend
Thine eyes; I confess and know it. But who shall cleanse it? or to whom
should I cry, save Thee? Lord, cleanse me from my secret faults, and spare
Thy servant from the power of the enemy. I believe, and therefore do I
speak. Lord, Thou knowest. Have I not confessed against myself my
transgressions unto Thee, and Thou, my God, hast forgiven the iniquity of
my heart? I contend not in judgment with Thee, who art the truth; I fear to
deceive myself; lest mine iniquity lie unto itself. Therefore I contend not in
judgment with Thee; for if Thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord,
who shall abide it?
Yet suffer me to speak unto Thy mercy, me, dust and ashes. Yet suffer me
to speak, since I speak to Thy mercy, and not to scornful man. Thou too,
perhaps, despisest me, yet wilt Thou return and have compassion upon me.
For what would I say, O Lord my God, but that I know not whence I came
into this dying life (shall I call it?) or living death. Then immediately did
the comforts of Thy compassion take me up, as I heard (for I remember it
not) from the parents of my flesh, out of whose substance Thou didst
sometime fashion me. Thus there received me the comforts of woman's
milk. For neither my mother nor my nurses stored their own breasts for me;
but Thou didst bestow the food of my infancy through them, according to
Thine ordinance, whereby Thou distributest Thy riches through the hidden
springs of all things. Thou also gavest me to desire no more than Thou
gavest; and to my nurses willingly to give me what Thou gavest them. For
they, with a heaven-taught affection, willingly gave me what they abounded
with from Thee. For this my good from them, was good for them. Nor,

indeed, from them was it, but through them; for from Thee, O God, are all
good things, and from my God is all my health. This I since learned, Thou,
through these Thy gifts, within me and without, proclaiming Thyself unto
me. For then I knew but to suck; to repose in what pleased, and cry at what
offended my flesh; nothing more.
Afterwards I began to smile; first in sleep, then waking: for so it was told
me of myself, and I believed it; for we see the like in other infants, though
of myself I remember it not. Thus, little by little, I became conscious where
I was; and to have a wish to express my wishes to those who could content
them, and I could not; for the wishes were within me, and they without; nor
could they by any sense of theirs enter within my spirit. So I flung about at
random limbs and voice, making the few signs I could, and such as I could,
like, though in truth very little like, what I wished. And when I was not
presently obeyed (my wishes being hurtful or unintelligible), then I was
indignant with my elders for not submitting to me, with those owing me no
service, for not serving me; and avenged myself on them by tears. Such
have I learnt infants to be from observing them; and that I was myself such,
they, all unconscious, have shown me better than my nurses who knew it.
And, lo! my infancy died long since, and I live. But Thou, Lord, who for
ever livest, and in whom nothing dies: for before the foundation of the
worlds, and before all that can be called "before," Thou art, and art God and
Lord of all which Thou hast created: in Thee abide, fixed for ever, the first
causes of all things unabiding; and of all things changeable, the springs
abide in Thee unchangeable: and in Thee live the eternal reasons of all
things unreasoning and temporal. Say, Lord, to me, Thy suppliant; say, all-
pitying, to me, Thy pitiable one; say, did my infancy succeed another age of
mine that died before it? was it that which I spent within my mother's
womb? for of that I have heard somewhat, and have myself seen women
with child? and what before that life again, O God my joy, was I any where
or any body? For this have I none to tell me, neither father nor mother, nor
experience of others, nor mine own memory. Dost Thou mock me for
asking this, and bid me praise Thee and acknowledge Thee, for that I do
know?
I acknowledge Thee, Lord of heaven and earth, and praise Thee for my
first rudiments of being, and my infancy, whereof I remember nothing; for
Thou hast appointed that man should from others guess much as to himself;

and believe much on the strength of weak females. Even then I had being
and life, and (at my infancy's close) I could seek for signs whereby to make
known to others my sensations. Whence could such a being be, save from
Thee, Lord? Shall any be his own artificer? or can there elsewhere be
derived any vein, which may stream essence and life into us, save from
thee, O Lord, in whom essence and life are one? for Thou Thyself art
supremely Essence and Life. For Thou art most high, and art not changed,
neither in Thee doth to-day come to a close; yet in Thee doth it come to a
close; because all such things also are in Thee. For they had no way to pass
away, unless Thou upheldest them. And since Thy years fail not, Thy years
are one to-day. How many of ours and our fathers' years have flowed away
through Thy "to-day," and from it received the measure and the mould of
such being as they had; and still others shall flow away, and so receive the
mould of their degree of being. But Thou art still the same, and all things of
tomorrow, and all beyond, and all of yesterday, and all behind it, Thou hast
done to-day. What is it to me, though any comprehend not this? Let him
also rejoice and say, What thing is this? Let him rejoice even thus! and be
content rather by not discovering to discover Thee, than by discovering not
to discover Thee.
Hear, O God. Alas, for man's sin! So saith man, and Thou pitiest him; for
Thou madest him, but sin in him Thou madest not. Who remindeth me of
the sins of my infancy? for in Thy sight none is pure from sin, not even the
infant whose life is but a day upon the earth. Who remindeth me? doth not
each little infant, in whom I see what of myself I remember not? What then
was my sin? was it that I hung upon the breast and cried? for should I now
so do for food suitable to my age, justly should I be laughed at and
reproved. What I then did was worthy reproof; but since I could not
understand reproof, custom and reason forbade me to be reproved. For
those habits, when grown, we root out and cast away. Now no man, though
he prunes, wittingly casts away what is good. Or was it then good, even for
a while, to cry for what, if given, would hurt? bitterly to resent, that persons
free, and its own elders, yea, the very authors of its birth, served it not? that
many besides, wiser than it, obeyed not the nod of its good pleasure? to do
its best to strike and hurt, because commands were not obeyed, which had
been obeyed to its hurt? The weakness then of infant limbs, not its will, is
its innocence. Myself have seen and known even a baby envious; it could
not speak, yet it turned pale and looked bitterly on its foster-brother. Who

knows not this? Mothers and nurses tell you that they allay these things by I
know not what remedies. Is that too innocence, when the fountain of milk is
flowing in rich abundance, not to endure one to share it, though in
extremest need, and whose very life as yet depends thereon? We bear gently
with all this, not as being no or slight evils, but because they will disappear
as years increase; for, though tolerated now, the very same tempers are
utterly intolerable when found in riper years.
Thou, then, O Lord my God, who gavest life to this my infancy,
furnishing thus with senses (as we see) the frame Thou gavest, compacting
its limbs, ornamenting its proportions, and, for its general good and safety,
implanting in it all vital functions, Thou commandest me to praise Thee in
these things, to confess unto Thee, and sing unto Thy name, Thou most
Highest. For Thou art God, Almighty and Good, even hadst Thou done
nought but only this, which none could do but Thou: whose Unity is the
mould of all things; who out of Thy own fairness makest all things fair; and
orderest all things by Thy law. This age then, Lord, whereof I have no
remembrance, which I take on others' word, and guess from other infants
that I have passed, true though the guess be, I am yet loth to count in this
life of mine which I live in this world. For no less than that which I spent in
my mother's womb, is it hid from me in the shadows of forgetfulness. But if
I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me, where, I
beseech Thee, O my God, where, Lord, or when, was I Thy servant
guiltless? But, lo! that period I pass by; and what have I now to do with
that, of which I can recall no vestige?
Passing hence from infancy, I came to boyhood, or rather it came to me,
displacing infancy. Nor did that depart,—(for whither went it?)—and yet it
was no more. For I was no longer a speechless infant, but a speaking boy.
This I remember; and have since observed how I learned to speak. It was
not that my elders taught me words (as, soon after, other learning) in any set
method; but I, longing by cries and broken accents and various motions of
my limbs to express my thoughts, that so I might have my will, and yet
unable to express all I willed, or to whom I willed, did myself, by the
understanding which Thou, my God, gavest me, practise the sounds in my
memory. When they named any thing, and as they spoke turned towards it, I
saw and remembered that they called what they would point out by the
name they uttered. And that they meant this thing and no other was plain
from the motion of their body, the natural language, as it were, of all

nations, expressed by the countenance, glances of the eye, gestures of the
limbs, and tones of the voice, indicating the affections of the mind, as it
pursues, possesses, rejects, or shuns. And thus by constantly hearing words,
as they occurred in various sentences, I collected gradually for what they
stood; and having broken in my mouth to these signs, I thereby gave
utterance to my will. Thus I exchanged with those about me these current
signs of our wills, and so launched deeper into the stormy intercourse of
human life, yet depending on parental authority and the beck of elders.
O God my God, what miseries and mockeries did I now experience,
when obedience to my teachers was proposed to me, as proper in a boy, in
order that in this world I might prosper, and excel in tongue-science, which
should serve to the "praise of men," and to deceitful riches. Next I was put
to school to get learning, in which I (poor wretch) knew not what use there
was; and yet, if idle in learning, I was beaten. For this was judged right by
our forefathers; and many, passing the same course before us, framed for us
weary paths, through which we were fain to pass; multiplying toil and grief
upon the sons of Adam. But, Lord, we found that men called upon Thee,
and we learnt from them to think of Thee (according to our powers) as of
some great One, who, though hidden from our senses, couldest hear and
help us. For so I began, as a boy, to pray to Thee, my aid and refuge; and
broke the fetters of my tongue to call on Thee, praying Thee, though small,
yet with no small earnestness, that I might not be beaten at school. And
when Thou heardest me not (not thereby giving me over to folly), my
elders, yea my very parents, who yet wished me no ill, mocked my stripes,
my then great and grievous ill.
Is there, Lord, any of soul so great, and cleaving to Thee with so intense
affection (for a sort of stupidity will in a way do it); but is there any one
who, from cleaving devoutly to Thee, is endued with so great a spirit, that
he can think as lightly of the racks and hooks and other torments (against
which, throughout all lands, men call on Thee with extreme dread),
mocking at those by whom they are feared most bitterly, as our parents
mocked the torments which we suffered in boyhood from our masters? For
we feared not our torments less; nor prayed we less to Thee to escape them.
And yet we sinned, in writing or reading or studying less than was exacted
of us. For we wanted not, O Lord, memory or capacity, whereof Thy will
gave enough for our age; but our sole delight was play; and for this we were
punished by those who yet themselves were doing the like. But elder folks'

idleness is called "business"; that of boys, being really the same, is punished
by those elders; and none commiserates either boys or men. For will any of
sound discretion approve of my being beaten as a boy, because, by playing
a ball, I made less progress in studies which I was to learn, only that, as a
man, I might play more unbeseemingly? and what else did he who beat me?
who, if worsted in some trifling discussion with his fellow-tutor, was more
embittered and jealous than I when beaten at ball by a play-fellow?
And yet, I sinned herein, O Lord God, the Creator and Disposer of all
things in nature, of sin the Disposer only, O Lord my God, I sinned in
transgressing the commands of my parents and those of my masters. For
what they, with whatever motive, would have me learn, I might afterwards
have put to good use. For I disobeyed, not from a better choice, but from
love of play, loving the pride of victory in my contests, and to have my ears
tickled with lying fables, that they might itch the more; the same curiosity
flashing from my eyes more and more, for the shows and games of my
elders. Yet those who give these shows are in such esteem, that almost all
wish the same for their children, and yet are very willing that they should be
beaten, if those very games detain them from the studies, whereby they
would have them attain to be the givers of them. Look with pity, Lord, on
these things, and deliver us who call upon Thee now; deliver those too who
call not on Thee yet, that they may call on Thee, and Thou mayest deliver
them.
As a boy, then, I had already heard of an eternal life, promised us through
the humility of the Lord our God stooping to our pride; and even from the
womb of my mother, who greatly hoped in Thee, I was sealed with the
mark of His cross and salted with His salt. Thou sawest, Lord, how while
yet a boy, being seized on a time with sudden oppression of the stomach,
and like near to death—Thou sawest, my God (for Thou wert my keeper),
with what eagerness and what faith I sought, from the pious care of my
mother and Thy Church, the mother of us all, the baptism of Thy Christ, my
God and Lord. Whereupon the mother of my flesh, being much troubled
(since, with a heart pure in Thy faith, she even more lovingly travailed in
birth of my salvation), would in eager haste have provided for my
consecration and cleansing by the health-giving sacraments, confessing
Thee, Lord Jesus, for the remission of sins, unless I had suddenly
recovered. And so, as if I must needs be again polluted should I live, my
cleansing was deferred, because the defilements of sin would, after that

washing, bring greater and more perilous guilt. I then already believed: and
my mother, and the whole household, except my father: yet did not he
prevail over the power of my mother's piety in me, that as he did not yet
believe, so neither should I. For it was her earnest care that Thou my God,
rather than he, shouldest be my father; and in this Thou didst aid her to
prevail over her husband, whom she, the better, obeyed, therein also
obeying Thee, who hast so commanded.
I beseech Thee, my God, I would fain know, if so Thou willest, for what
purpose my baptism was then deferred? was it for my good that the rein
was laid loose, as it were, upon me, for me to sin? or was it not laid loose?
If not, why does it still echo in our ears on all sides, "Let him alone, let him
do as he will, for he is not yet baptised?" but as to bodily health, no one
says, "Let him be worse wounded, for he is not yet healed." How much
better then, had I been at once healed; and then, by my friends' and my own,
my soul's recovered health had been kept safe in Thy keeping who gavest it.
Better truly. But how many and great waves of temptation seemed to hang
over me after my boyhood! These my mother foresaw; and preferred to
expose to them the clay whence I might afterwards be moulded, than the
very cast, when made.
In boyhood itself, however (so much less dreaded for me than youth), I
loved not study, and hated to be forced to it. Yet I was forced; and this was
well done towards me, but I did not well; for, unless forced, I had not learnt.
But no one doth well against his will, even though what he doth, be well.
Yet neither did they well who forced me, but what was well came to me
from Thee, my God. For they were regardless how I should employ what
they forced me to learn, except to satiate the insatiate desires of a wealthy
beggary, and a shameful glory. But Thou, by whom the very hairs of our
head are numbered, didst use for my good the error of all who urged me to
learn; and my own, who would not learn, Thou didst use for my punishment
—a fit penalty for one, so small a boy and so great a sinner. So by those
who did not well, Thou didst well for me; and by my own sin Thou didst
justly punish me. For Thou hast commanded, and so it is, that every
inordinate affection should be its own punishment.
But why did I so much hate the Greek, which I studied as a boy? I do not
yet fully know. For the Latin I loved; not what my first masters, but what
the so-called grammarians taught me. For those first lessons, reading,

writing and arithmetic, I thought as great a burden and penalty as any
Greek. And yet whence was this too, but from the sin and vanity of this life,
because I was flesh, and a breath that passeth away and cometh not again?
For those first lessons were better certainly, because more certain; by them I
obtained, and still retain, the power of reading what I find written, and
myself writing what I will; whereas in the others, I was forced to learn the
wanderings of one Æneas, forgetful of my own, and to weep for dead Dido,
because she killed herself for love; the while, with dry eyes, I endured my
miserable self dying among these things, far from Thee, O God my life.
For what more miserable than a miserable being who commiserates not
himself; weeping the death of Dido for love to Æneas, but weeping not his
own death for want of love to Thee, O God. Thou light of my heart, Thou
bread of my inmost soul, Thou Power who givest vigour to my mind, who
quickenest my thoughts, I loved Thee not. I committed fornication against
Thee, and all around me thus fornicating there echoed "Well done! well
done!" for the friendship of this world is fornication against Thee; and
"Well done! well done!" echoes on till one is ashamed not to be thus a man.
And for all this I wept not, I who wept for Dido slain, and "seeking by the
sword a stroke and wound extreme," myself seeking the while a worse
extreme, the extremest and lowest of Thy creatures, having forsaken Thee,
earth passing into the earth. And if forbid to read all this, I was grieved that
I might not read what grieved me. Madness like this is thought a higher and
a richer learning, than that by which I learned to read and write.
But now, my God, cry Thou aloud in my soul; and let Thy truth tell me,
"Not so, not so. Far better was that first study." For, lo, I would readily
forget the wanderings of Æneas and all the rest, rather than how to read and
write. But over the entrance of the Grammar School is a vail drawn! true;
yet is this not so much an emblem of aught recondite, as a cloak of error.
Let not those, whom I no longer fear, cry out against me, while I confess to
Thee, my God, whatever my soul will, and acquiesce in the condemnation
of my evil ways, that I may love Thy good ways. Let not either buyers or
sellers of grammar-learning cry out against me. For if I question them
whether it be true that Æneas came on a time to Carthage, as the poet tells,
the less learned will reply that they know not, the more learned that he
never did. But should I ask with what letters the name "Æneas" is written,
every one who has learnt this will answer me aright, as to the signs which
men have conventionally settled. If, again, I should ask which might be

forgotten with least detriment to the concerns of life, reading and writing or
these poetic fictions? who does not foresee what all must answer who have
not wholly forgotten themselves? I sinned, then, when as a boy I preferred
those empty to those more profitable studies, or rather loved the one and
hated the other. "One and one, two"; "two and two, four"; this was to me a
hateful singsong: "the wooden horse lined with armed men," and "the
burning of Troy," and "Creusa's shade and sad similitude," were the choice
spectacle of my vanity.
Why then did I hate the Greek classics, which have the like tales? For
Homer also curiously wove the like fictions, and is most sweetly-vain, yet
was he bitter to my boyish taste. And so I suppose would Virgil be to
Grecian children, when forced to learn him as I was Homer. Difficulty, in
truth, the difficulty of a foreign tongue, dashed, as it were, with gall all the
sweetness of Grecian fable. For not one word of it did I understand, and to
make me understand I was urged vehemently with cruel threats and
punishments. Time was also (as an infant) I knew no Latin; but this I
learned without fear or suffering, by mere observation, amid the caresses of
my nursery and jests of friends, smiling and sportively encouraging me.
This I learned without any pressure of punishment to urge me on, for my
heart urged me to give birth to its conceptions, which I could only do by
learning words not of those who taught, but of those who talked with me; in
whose ears also I gave birth to the thoughts, whatever I conceived. No
doubt, then, that a free curiosity has more force in our learning these things,
than a frightful enforcement. Only this enforcement restrains the rovings of
that freedom, through Thy laws, O my God, Thy laws, from the master's
cane to the martyr's trials, being able to temper for us a wholesome bitter,
recalling us to Thyself from that deadly pleasure which lures us from Thee.
Hear, Lord, my prayer; let not my soul faint under Thy discipline, nor let
me faint in confessing unto Thee all Thy mercies, whereby Thou hast drawn
me out of all my most evil ways, that Thou mightest become a delight to me
above all the allurements which I once pursued; that I may most entirely
love Thee, and clasp Thy hand with all my affections, and Thou mayest yet
rescue me from every temptation, even unto the end. For lo, O Lord, my
King and my God, for Thy service be whatever useful thing my childhood
learned; for Thy service, that I speak, write, read, reckon. For Thou didst
grant me Thy discipline, while I was learning vanities; and my sin of
delighting in those vanities Thou hast forgiven. In them, indeed, I learnt

many a useful word, but these may as well be learned in things not vain;
and that is the safe path for the steps of youth.
But woe is thee, thou torrent of human custom! Who shall stand against
thee? how long shalt thou not be dried up? how long roll the sons of Eve
into that huge and hideous ocean, which even they scarcely overpass who
climb the cross? Did not I read in thee of Jove the thunderer and the
adulterer? both, doubtless, he could not be; but so the feigned thunder might
countenance and pander to real adultery. And now which of our gowned
masters lends a sober ear to one who from their own school cries out,
"These were Homer's fictions, transferring things human to the gods; would
he had brought down things divine to us!" Yet more truly had he said,
"These are indeed his fictions; but attributing a divine nature to wicked
men, that crimes might be no longer crimes, and whoso commits them
might seem to imitate not abandoned men, but the celestial gods."
And yet, thou hellish torrent, into thee are cast the sons of men with rich
rewards, for compassing such learning; and a great solemnity is made of it,
when this is going on in the forum, within sight of laws appointing a salary
beside the scholar's payments; and thou lashest thy rocks and roarest,
"Hence words are learnt; hence eloquence; most necessary to gain your
ends, or maintain opinions." As if we should have never known such words
as "golden shower," "lap," "beguile," "temples of the heavens," or others in
that passage, unless Terence had brought a lewd youth upon the stage,
setting up Jupiter as his example of seduction.
"Viewing a picture, where the tale was drawn,
Of Jove's descending in a golden shower
To Danae's lap a woman to beguile."

And then mark how he excites himself to lust as by celestial authority:
"And what God? Great Jove,
Who shakes heaven's highest temples with his thunder,
And I, poor mortal man, not do the same!
I did it, and with all my heart I did it."

Not one whit more easily are the words learnt for all this vileness; but by
their means the vileness is committed with less shame. Not that I blame the
words, being, as it were, choice and precious vessels; but that wine of error
which is drunk to us in them by intoxicated teachers; and if we, too, drink
not, we are beaten, and have no sober judge to whom we may appeal. Yet,

O my God (in whose presence I now without hurt may remember this), all
this unhappily I learnt willingly with great delight, and for this was
pronounced a hopeful boy.
Bear with me, my God, while I say somewhat of my wit, Thy gift, and on
what dotages I wasted it. For a task was set me, troublesome enough to my
soul, upon terms of praise or shame, and fear of stripes, to speak the words
of Juno, as she raged and mourned that she could not
"This Trojan prince from Latinum turn."

Which words I had heard that Juno never uttered; but we were forced to go
astray in the footsteps of these poetic fictions, and to say in prose much
what he expressed in verse. And his speaking was most applauded, in whom
the passions of rage and grief were most preeminent, and clothed in the
most fitting language, maintaining the dignity of the character. What is it to
me, O my true life, my God, that my declamation was applauded above so
many of my own age and class? is not all this smoke and wind? and was
there nothing else whereon to exercise my wit and tongue? Thy praises,
Lord, Thy praises might have stayed the yet tender shoot of my heart by the
prop of Thy Scriptures; so had it not trailed away amid these empty trifles, a
defiled prey for the fowls of the air. For in more ways than one do men
sacrifice to the rebellious angels.
But what marvel that I was thus carried away to vanities, and went out
from Thy presence, O my God, when men were set before me as models,
who, if in relating some action of theirs, in itself not ill, they committed
some barbarism or solecism, being censured, were abashed; but when in
rich and adorned and well-ordered discourse they related their own
disordered life, being bepraised, they gloried? These things Thou seest,
Lord, and holdest Thy peace; long-suffering, and plenteous in mercy and
truth. Wilt Thou hold Thy peace for ever? and even now Thou drawest out
of this horrible gulf the soul that seeketh Thee, that thirsteth for Thy
pleasures, whose heart saith unto Thee, I have sought Thy face; Thy face,
Lord, will I seek. For darkened affections is removal from Thee. For it is
not by our feet, or change of place, that men leave Thee, or return unto
Thee. Or did that Thy younger son look out for horses or chariots, or ships,
fly with visible wings, or journey by the motion of his limbs, that he might
in a far country waste in riotous living all Thou gavest at his departure? a
loving Father, when Thou gavest, and more loving unto him, when he

returned empty. So then in lustful, that is, in darkened affections, is the true
distance from Thy face.
Behold, O Lord God, yea, behold patiently as Thou art wont how
carefully the sons of men observe the covenanted rules of letters and
syllables received from those who spake before them, neglecting the eternal
covenant of everlasting salvation received from Thee. Insomuch, that a
teacher or learner of the hereditary laws of pronunciation will more offend
men by speaking without the aspirate, of a "uman being," in despite of the
laws of grammar, than if he, a "human being," hate a "human being" in
despite of Thine. As if any enemy could be more hurtful than the hatred
with which he is incensed against him; or could wound more deeply him
whom he persecutes, than he wounds his own soul by his enmity. Assuredly
no science of letters can be so innate as the record of conscience, "that he is
doing to another what from another he would be loth to suffer." How deep
are Thy ways, O God, Thou only great, that sittest silent on high and by an
unwearied law dispensing penal blindness to lawless desires. In quest of the
fame of eloquence, a man standing before a human judge, surrounded by a
human throng, declaiming against his enemy with fiercest hatred, will take
heed most watchfully, lest, by an error of the tongue, he murder the word
"human being"; but takes no heed, lest, through the fury of his spirit, he
murder the real human being.
This was the world at whose gate unhappy I lay in my boyhood; this the
stage where I had feared more to commit a barbarism, than having
committed one, to envy those who had not. These things I speak and
confess to Thee, my God; for which I had praise from them, whom I then
thought it all virtue to please. For I saw not the abyss of vileness, wherein I
was cast away from Thine eyes. Before them what more foul than I was
already, displeasing even such as myself? with innumerable lies deceiving
my tutor, my masters, my parents, from love of play, eagerness to see vain
shows and restlessness to imitate them! Thefts also I committed, from my
parents' cellar and table, enslaved by greediness, or that I might have to give
to boys, who sold me their play, which all the while they liked no less than
I. In this play, too, I often sought unfair conquests, conquered myself
meanwhile by vain desire of preeminence. And what could I so ill endure,
or, when I detected it, upbraided I so fiercely, as that I was doing to others?
and for which if, detected, I was upbraided, I chose rather to quarrel than to
yield. And is this the innocence of boyhood? Not so, Lord, not so; I cry Thy

mercy, my God. For these very sins, as riper years succeed, these very sins
are transferred from tutors and masters, from nuts and balls and sparrows,
to magistrates and kings, to gold and manors and slaves, just as severer
punishments displace the cane. It was the low stature then of childhood
which Thou our King didst commend as an emblem of lowliness, when
Thou saidst, Of such is the kingdom of heaven.
Yet, Lord, to Thee, the Creator and Governor of the universe, most
excellent and most good, thanks were due to Thee our God, even hadst
Thou destined for me boyhood only. For even then I was, I lived, and felt;
and had an implanted providence over my well-being—a trace of that
mysterious Unity whence I was derived; I guarded by the inward sense the
entireness of my senses, and in these minute pursuits, and in my thoughts
on things minute, I learnt to delight in truth, I hated to be deceived, had a
vigorous memory, was gifted with speech, was soothed by friendship,
avoided pain, baseness, ignorance. In so small a creature, what was not
wonderful, not admirable? But all are gifts of my God: it was not I who
gave them me; and good these are, and these together are myself. Good,
then, is He that made me, and He is my good; and before Him will I exult
for every good which of a boy I had. For it was my sin, that not in Him, but
in His creatures—myself and others—I sought for pleasures, sublimities,
truths, and so fell headlong into sorrows, confusions, errors. Thanks be to
Thee, my joy and my glory and my confidence, my God, thanks be to Thee
for Thy gifts; but do Thou preserve them to me. For so wilt Thou preserve
me, and those things shall be enlarged and perfected which Thou hast given
me, and I myself shall be with Thee, since even to be Thou hast given me.

BOOK II

I will now call to mind my past foulness, and the carnal corruptions of
my soul; not because I love them, but that I may love Thee, O my God. For
love of Thy love I do it; reviewing my most wicked ways in the very
bitterness of my remembrance, that Thou mayest grow sweet unto me
(Thou sweetness never failing, Thou blissful and assured sweetness); and
gathering me again out of that my dissipation, wherein I was torn
piecemeal, while turned from Thee, the One Good, I lost myself among a
multiplicity of things. For I even burnt in my youth heretofore, to be
satiated in things below; and I dared to grow wild again, with these various
and shadowy loves: my beauty consumed away, and I stank in Thine eyes;
pleasing myself, and desirous to please in the eyes of men.
And what was it that I delighted in, but to love, and be loved? but I kept
not the measure of love, of mind to mind, friendship's bright boundary: but
out of the muddy concupiscence of the flesh, and the bubblings of youth,
mists fumed up which beclouded and overcast my heart, that I could not
discern the clear brightness of love from the fog of lustfulness. Both did
confusedly boil in me, and hurried my unstayed youth over the precipice of
unholy desires, and sunk me in a gulf of flagitiousnesses. Thy wrath had
gathered over me, and I knew it not. I was grown deaf by the clanking of
the chain of my mortality, the punishment of the pride of my soul, and I
strayed further from Thee, and Thou lettest me alone, and I was tossed
about, and wasted, and dissipated, and I boiled over in my fornications, and
Thou heldest Thy peace, O Thou my tardy joy! Thou then heldest Thy
peace, and I wandered further and further from Thee, into more and more
fruitless seed-plots of sorrows, with a proud dejectedness, and a restless
weariness.
Oh! that some one had then attempered my disorder, and turned to
account the fleeting beauties of these, the extreme points of Thy creation!
had put a bound to their pleasureableness, that so the tides of my youth
might have cast themselves upon the marriage shore, if they could not be

calmed, and kept within the object of a family, as Thy law prescribes, O
Lord: who this way formest the offspring of this our death, being able with
a gentle hand to blunt the thorns which were excluded from Thy paradise?
For Thy omnipotency is not far from us, even when we be far from Thee.
Else ought I more watchfully to have heeded the voice from the clouds:
Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh, but I spare you. And it is
good for a man not to touch a woman. And, he that is unmarried thinketh of
the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord; but he that is married
careth for the things of this world, how he may please his wife.
To these words I should have listened more attentively, and being severed
for the kingdom of heaven's sake, had more happily awaited Thy embraces;
but I, poor wretch, foamed like a troubled sea, following the rushing of my
own tide, forsaking Thee, and exceeded all Thy limits; yet I escaped not
Thy scourges. For what mortal can? For Thou wert ever with me mercifully
rigorous, and besprinkling with most bitter alloy all my unlawful pleasures:
that I might seek pleasures without alloy. But where to find such, I could
not discover, save in Thee, O Lord, who teachest by sorrow, and woundest
us, to heal; and killest us, lest we die from Thee. Where was I, and how far
was I exiled from the delights of Thy house, in that sixteenth year of the age
of my flesh, when the madness of lust (to which human shamelessness
giveth free licence, though unlicensed by Thy laws) took the rule over me,
and I resigned myself wholly to it? My friends meanwhile took no care by
marriage to save my fall; their only care was that I should learn to speak
excellently, and be a persuasive orator.
For that year were my studies intermitted: whilst after my return from
Madaura (a neighbour city, whither I had journeyed to learn grammar and
rhetoric), the expenses for a further journey to Carthage were being
provided for me; and that rather by the resolution than the means of my
father, who was but a poor freeman of Thagaste. To whom tell I this? not to
Thee, my God; but before Thee to mine own kind, even to that small
portion of mankind as may light upon these writings of mine. And to what
purpose? that whosoever reads this, may think out of what depths we are to
cry unto Thee. For what is nearer to Thine ears than a confessing heart, and
a life of faith? Who did not extol my father, for that beyond the ability of
his means, he would furnish his son with all necessaries for a far journey for
his studies' sake? For many far abler citizens did no such thing for their
children. But yet this same father had no concern how I grew towards Thee,

or how chaste I were; so that I were but copious in speech, however barren I
were to Thy culture, O God, who art the only true and good Lord of Thy
field, my heart.
But while in that my sixteenth year I lived with my parents, leaving all
school for a while (a season of idleness being interposed through the
narrowness of my parents' fortunes), the briers of unclean desires grew rank
over my head, and there was no hand to root them out. When that my father
saw me at the baths, now growing towards manhood, and endued with a
restless youthfulness, he, as already hence anticipating his descendants,
gladly told it to my mother; rejoicing in that tumult of the senses wherein
the world forgetteth Thee its Creator, and becometh enamoured of Thy
creature, instead of Thyself, through the fumes of that invisible wine of its
self-will, turning aside and bowing down to the very basest things. But in
my mother's breast Thou hadst already begun Thy temple, and the
foundation of Thy holy habitation, whereas my father was as yet but a
Catechumen, and that but recently. She then was startled with a holy fear
and trembling; and though I was not as yet baptised, feared for me those
crooked ways in which they walk who turn their back to Thee, and not their
face.
Woe is me! and dare I say that Thou heldest Thy peace, O my God, while
I wandered further from Thee? Didst Thou then indeed hold Thy peace to
me? And whose but Thine were these words which by my mother, Thy
faithful one, Thou sangest in my ears? Nothing whereof sunk into my heart,
so as to do it. For she wished, and I remember in private with great anxiety
warned me, "not to commit fornication; but especially never to defile
another man's wife." These seemed to me womanish advices, which I
should blush to obey. But they were Thine, and I knew it not: and I thought
Thou wert silent and that it was she who spake; by whom Thou wert not
silent unto me; and in her wast despised by me, her son, the son of Thy
handmaid, Thy servant. But I knew it not; and ran headlong with such
blindness, that amongst my equals I was ashamed of a less shamelessness,
when I heard them boast of their flagitiousness, yea, and the more boasting,
the more they were degraded: and I took pleasure, not only in the pleasure
of the deed, but in the praise. What is worthy of dispraise but vice? But I
made myself worse than I was, that I might not be dispraised; and when in
any thing I had not sinned as the abandoned ones, I would say that I had

done what I had not done, that I might not seem contemptible in proportion
as I was innocent; or of less account, the more chaste.
Behold with what companions I walked the streets of Babylon, and
wallowed in the mire thereof, as if in a bed of spices and precious
ointments. And that I might cleave the faster to its very centre, the invisible
enemy trod me down, and seduced me, for that I was easy to be seduced.
Neither did the mother of my flesh (who had now fled out of the centre of
Babylon, yet went more slowly in the skirts thereof as she advised me to
chastity, so heed what she had heard of me from her husband, as to restrain
within the bounds of conjugal affection, if it could not be pared away to the
quick) what she felt to be pestilent at present and for the future dangerous.
She heeded not this, for she feared lest a wife should prove a clog and
hindrance to my hopes. Not those hopes of the world to come, which my
mother reposed in Thee; but the hope of learning, which both my parents
were too desirous I should attain; my father, because he had next to no
thought of Thee, and of me but vain conceits; my mother, because she
accounted that those usual courses of learning would not only be no
hindrance, but even some furtherance towards attaining Thee. For thus I
conjecture, recalling, as well as I may, the disposition of my parents. The
reins, meantime, were slackened to me, beyond all temper of due severity,
to spend my time in sport, yea, even unto dissoluteness in whatsoever I
affected. And in all was a mist, intercepting from me, O my God, the
brightness of Thy truth; and mine iniquity burst out as from very fatness.
Theft is punished by Thy law, O Lord, and the law written in the hearts of
men, which iniquity itself effaces not. For what thief will abide a thief? not
even a rich thief, one stealing through want. Yet I lusted to thieve, and did
it, compelled by no hunger, nor poverty, but through a cloyedness of well-
doing, and a pamperedness of iniquity. For I stole that, of which I had
enough, and much better. Nor cared I to enjoy what I stole, but joyed in the
theft and sin itself. A pear tree there was near our vineyard, laden with fruit,
tempting neither for colour nor taste. To shake and rob this, some lewd
young fellows of us went, late one night (having according to our pestilent
custom prolonged our sports in the streets till then), and took huge loads,
not for our eating, but to fling to the very hogs, having only tasted them.
And this, but to do what we liked only, because it was misliked. Behold my
heart, O God, behold my heart, which Thou hadst pity upon in the bottom
of the bottomless pit. Now, behold, let my heart tell Thee what it sought

there, that I should be gratuitously evil, having no temptation to ill, but the
ill itself. It was foul, and I loved it; I loved to perish, I loved mine own
fault, not that for which I was faulty, but my fault itself. Foul soul, falling
from Thy firmament to utter destruction; not seeking aught through the
shame, but the shame itself!
For there is an attractiveness in beautiful bodies, in gold and silver, and
all things; and in bodily touch, sympathy hath much influence, and each
other sense hath his proper object answerably tempered. Worldy honour
hath also its grace, and the power of overcoming, and of mastery; whence
springs also the thirst of revenge. But yet, to obtain all these, we may not
depart from Thee, O Lord, nor decline from Thy law. The life also which
here we live hath its own enchantment, through a certain proportion of its
own, and a correspondence with all things beautiful here below. Human
friendship also is endeared with a sweet tie, by reason of the unity formed
of many souls. Upon occasion of all these, and the like, is sin committed,
while through an immoderate inclination towards these goods of the lowest
order, the better and higher are forsaken,—Thou, our Lord God, Thy truth,
and Thy law. For these lower things have their delights, but not like my
God, who made all things; for in Him doth the righteous delight, and He is
the joy of the upright in heart.
When, then, we ask why a crime was done, we believe it not, unless it
appear that there might have been some desire of obtaining some of those
which we called lower goods, or a fear of losing them. For they are
beautiful and comely; although compared with those higher and beatific
goods, they be abject and low. A man hath murdered another; why? he
loved his wife or his estate; or would rob for his own livelihood; or feared
to lose some such things by him; or, wronged, was on fire to be revenged.
Would any commit murder upon no cause, delighted simply in murdering?
who would believe it? for as for that furious and savage man, of whom it is
said that he was gratuitously evil and cruel, yet is the cause assigned; "lest"
(saith he) "through idleness hand or heart should grow inactive." And to
what end? that, through that practice of guilt, he might, having taken the
city, attain to honours, empire, riches, and be freed from fear of the laws,
and his embarrassments from domestic needs, and consciousness of
villainies. So then, not even Catiline himself loved his own villainies, but
something else, for whose sake he did them.

What then did wretched I so love in thee, thou theft of mine, thou deed of
darkness, in that sixteenth year of my age? Lovely thou wert not, because
thou wert theft. But art thou any thing, that thus I speak to thee? Fair were
the pears we stole, because they were Thy creation, Thou fairest of all,
Creator of all, Thou good God; God, the sovereign good and my true good.
Fair were those pears, but not them did my wretched soul desire; for I had
store of better, and those I gathered, only that I might steal. For, when
gathered, I flung them away, my only feast therein being my own sin, which
I was pleased to enjoy. For if aught of those pears came within my mouth,
what sweetened it was the sin. And now, O Lord my God, I enquire what in
that theft delighted me; and behold it hath no loveliness; I mean not such
loveliness as in justice and wisdom; nor such as is in the mind and memory,
and senses, and animal life of man; nor yet as the stars are glorious and
beautiful in their orbs; or the earth, or sea, full of embryo-life, replacing by
its birth that which decayeth; nay, nor even that false and shadowy beauty
which belongeth to deceiving vices.
For so doth pride imitate exaltedness; whereas Thou alone art God
exalted over all. Ambition, what seeks it, but honours and glory? whereas
Thou alone art to be honoured above all, and glorious for evermore. The
cruelty of the great would fain be feared; but who is to be feared but God
alone, out of whose power what can be wrested or withdrawn? when, or
where, or whither, or by whom? The tendernesses of the wanton would fain
be counted love: yet is nothing more tender than Thy charity; nor is aught
loved more healthfully than that Thy truth, bright and beautiful above all.
Curiosity makes semblance of a desire of knowledge; whereas Thou
supremely knowest all. Yea, ignorance and foolishness itself is cloaked
under the name of simplicity and uninjuriousness; because nothing is found
more single than Thee: and what less injurious, since they are his own
works which injure the sinner? Yea, sloth would fain be at rest; but what
stable rest besides the Lord? Luxury affects to be called plenty and
abundance; but Thou art the fulness and never-failing plenteousness of
incorruptible pleasures. Prodigality presents a shadow of liberality: but
Thou art the most overflowing Giver of all good. Covetousness would
possess many things; and Thou possessest all things. Envy disputes for
excellency: what more excellent than Thou? Anger seeks revenge: who
revenges more justly than Thou? Fear startles at things unwonted and
sudden, which endangers things beloved, and takes forethought for their

safety; but to Thee what unwonted or sudden, or who separateth from Thee
what Thou lovest? Or where but with Thee is unshaken safety? Grief pines
away for things lost, the delight of its desires; because it would have
nothing taken from it, as nothing can from Thee.
Thus doth the soul commit fornication, when she turns from Thee,
seeking without Thee, what she findeth not pure and untainted, till she
returns to Thee. Thus all pervertedly imitate Thee, who remove far from
Thee, and lift themselves up against Thee. But even by thus imitating Thee,
they imply Thee to be the Creator of all nature; whence there is no place
whither altogether to retire from Thee. What then did I love in that theft?
and wherein did I even corruptly and pervertedly imitate my Lord? Did I
wish even by stealth to do contrary to Thy law, because by power I could
not, so that being a prisoner, I might mimic a maimed liberty by doing with
impunity things unpermitted me, a darkened likeness of Thy Omnipotency?
Behold, Thy servant, fleeing from his Lord, and obtaining a shadow. O
rottenness, O monstrousness of life, and depth of death! could I like what I
might not, only because I might not?
What shall I render unto the Lord, that, whilst my memory recalls these
things, my soul is not affrighted at them? I will love Thee, O Lord, and
thank Thee, and confess unto Thy name; because Thou hast forgiven me
these so great and heinous deeds of mine. To Thy grace I ascribe it, and to
Thy mercy, that Thou hast melted away my sins as it were ice. To Thy grace
I ascribe also whatsoever I have not done of evil; for what might I not have
done, who even loved a sin for its own sake? Yea, all I confess to have been
forgiven me; both what evils I committed by my own wilfulness, and what
by Thy guidance I committed not. What man is he, who, weighing his own
infirmity, dares to ascribe his purity and innocency to his own strength; that
so he should love Thee the less, as if he had less needed Thy mercy,
whereby Thou remittest sins to those that turn to Thee? For whosoever,
called by Thee, followed Thy voice, and avoided those things which he
reads me recalling and confessing of myself, let him not scorn me, who
being sick, was cured by that Physician, through whose aid it was that he
was not, or rather was less, sick: and for this let him love Thee as much, yea
and more; since by whom he sees me to have been recovered from such
deep consumption of sin, by Him he sees himself to have been from the like
consumption of sin preserved.

What fruit had I then (wretched man!) in those things, of the
remembrance whereof I am now ashamed? Especially, in that theft which I
loved for the theft's sake; and it too was nothing, and therefore the more
miserable I, who loved it. Yet alone I had not done it: such was I then, I
remember, alone I had never done it. I loved then in it also the company of
the accomplices, with whom I did it? I did not then love nothing else but the
theft, yea rather I did love nothing else; for that circumstance of the
company was also nothing. What is, in truth? who can teach me, save He
that enlighteneth my heart, and discovereth its dark corners? What is it
which hath come into my mind to enquire, and discuss, and consider? For
had I then loved the pears I stole, and wished to enjoy them, I might have
done it alone, had the bare commission of the theft sufficed to attain my
pleasure; nor needed I have inflamed the itching of my desires by the
excitement of accomplices. But since my pleasure was not in those pears, it
was in the offence itself, which the company of fellow-sinners occasioned.
What then was this feeling? For of a truth it was too foul: and woe was
me, who had it. But yet what was it? Who can understand his errors? It was
the sport, which as it were tickled our hearts, that we beguiled those who
little thought what we were doing, and much disliked it. Why then was my
delight of such sort that I did it not alone? Because none doth ordinarily
laugh alone? ordinarily no one; yet laughter sometimes masters men alone
and singly when no one whatever is with them, if anything very ludicrous
presents itself to their senses or mind. Yet I had not done this alone; alone I
had never done it. Behold my God, before Thee, the vivid remembrance of
my soul; alone, I had never committed that theft wherein what I stole
pleased me not, but that I stole; nor had it alone liked me to do it, nor had I
done it. O friendship too unfriendly! thou incomprehensible inveigler of the
soul, thou greediness to do mischief out of mirth and wantonness, thou
thirst of others' loss, without lust of my own gain or revenge: but when it is
said, "Let's go, let's do it," we are ashamed not to be shameless.
Who can disentangle that twisted and intricate knottiness? Foul is it: I
hate to think on it, to look on it. But Thee I long for, O Righteousness and
Innocency, beautiful and comely to all pure eyes, and of a satisfaction
unsating. With Thee is rest entire, and life imperturbable. Whoso enters into
Thee, enters into the joy of his Lord: and shall not fear, and shall do
excellently in the All-Excellent. I sank away from Thee, and I wandered, O

my God, too much astray from Thee my stay, in these days of my youth,
and I became to myself a barren land.

BOOK III

To Carthage I came, where there sang all around me in my ears a
cauldron of unholy loves. I loved not yet, yet I loved to love, and out of a
deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not. I sought what I might
love, in love with loving, and safety I hated, and a way without snares. For
within me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet, through
that famine I was not hungered; but was without all longing for
incorruptible sustenance, not because filled therewith, but the more empty,
the more I loathed it. For this cause my soul was sickly and full of sores, it
miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the touch of objects of
sense. Yet if these had not a soul, they would not be objects of love. To love
then, and to be beloved, was sweet to me; but more, when I obtained to
enjoy the person I loved, I defiled, therefore, the spring of friendship with
the filth of concupiscence, and I beclouded its brightness with the hell of
lustfulness; and thus foul and unseemly, I would fain, through exceeding
vanity, be fine and courtly. I fell headlong then into the love wherein I
longed to be ensnared. My God, my Mercy, with how much gall didst Thou
out of Thy great goodness besprinkle for me that sweetness? For I was both
beloved, and secretly arrived at the bond of enjoying; and was with joy
fettered with sorrow-bringing bonds, that I might be scourged with the iron
burning rods of jealousy, and suspicions, and fears, and angers, and
quarrels.
Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries, and of
fuel to my fire. Why is it, that man desires to be made sad, beholding
doleful and tragical things, which yet himself would no means suffer? yet
he desires as a spectator to feel sorrow at them, and this very sorrow is his
pleasure. What is this but a miserable madness? for a man is the more
affected with these actions, the less free he is from such affections.
Howsoever, when he suffers in his own person, it uses to be styled misery:
when he compassionates others, then it is mercy. But what sort of
compassion is this for feigned and scenical passions? for the auditor is not

called on to relieve, but only to grieve: and he applauds the actor of these
fictions the more, the more he grieves. And if the calamities of those
persons (whether of old times, or mere fiction) be so acted, that the
spectator is not moved to tears, he goes away disgusted and criticising; but
if he be moved to passion, he stays intent, and weeps for joy.
Are griefs then too loved? Verily all desire joy. Or whereas no man likes
to be miserable, is he yet pleased to be merciful? which because it cannot be
without passion, for this reason alone are passions loved? This also springs
from that vein of friendship. But whither goes that vein? whither flows it?
wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch bubbling forth those monstrous
tides of foul lustfulness, into which it is wilfully changed and transformed,
being of its own will precipitated and corrupted from its heavenly
clearness? Shall compassion then be put away? by no means. Be griefs then
sometimes loved. But beware of uncleanness, O my soul, under the
guardianship of my God, the God of our fathers, who is to be praised and
exalted above all for ever, beware of uncleanness. For I have not now
ceased to pity; but then in the theatres I rejoiced with lovers when they
wickedly enjoyed one another, although this was imaginary only in the play.
And when they lost one another, as if very compassionate, I sorrowed with
them, yet had my delight in both. But now I much more pity him that
rejoiceth in his wickedness, than him who is thought to suffer hardship, by
missing some pernicious pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity.
This certainly is the truer mercy, but in it grief delights not. For though he
that grieves for the miserable, be commended for his office of charity; yet
had he, who is genuinely compassionate, rather there were nothing for him
to grieve for. For if good will be ill willed (which can never be), then may
he, who truly and sincerely commiserates, wish there might be some
miserable, that he might commiserate. Some sorrow may then be allowed,
none loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who lovest souls far more
purely than we, and hast more incorruptibly pity on them, yet are wounded
with no sorrowfulness. And who is sufficient for these things?
But I, miserable, then loved to grieve, and sought out what to grieve at,
when in another's and that feigned and personated misery, that acting best
pleased me, and attracted me the most vehemently, which drew tears from
me. What marvel that an unhappy sheep, straying from Thy flock, and
impatient of Thy keeping, I became infected with a foul disease? And hence
the love of griefs; not such as should sink deep into me; for I loved not to

suffer, what I loved to look on; but such as upon hearing their fictions
should lightly scratch the surface; upon which, as on envenomed nails,
followed inflamed swelling, impostumes, and a putrefied sore. My life
being such, was it life, O my God?
And Thy faithful mercy hovered over me afar. Upon how grievous
iniquities consumed I myself, pursuing a sacrilegious curiosity, that having
forsaken Thee, it might bring me to the treacherous abyss, and the beguiling
service of devils, to whom I sacrificed my evil actions, and in all these
things Thou didst scourge me! I dared even, while Thy solemnities were
celebrated within the walls of Thy Church, to desire, and to compass a
business deserving death for its fruits, for which Thou scourgedst me with
grievous punishments, though nothing to my fault, O Thou my exceeding
mercy, my God, my refuge from those terrible destroyers, among whom I
wandered with a stiff neck, withdrawing further from Thee, loving mine
own ways, and not Thine; loving a vagrant liberty.
Those studies also, which were accounted commendable, had a view to
excelling in the courts of litigation; the more bepraised, the craftier. Such is
men's blindness, glorying even in their blindness. And now I was chief in
the rhetoric school, whereat I joyed proudly, and I swelled with arrogancy,
though (Lord, Thou knowest) far quieter and altogether removed from the
subvertings of those "Subverters" (for this ill-omened and devilish name
was the very badge of gallantry) among whom I lived, with a shameless
shame that I was not even as they. With them I lived, and was sometimes
delighted with their friendship, whose doings I ever did abhor—i.e., their
"subvertings," wherewith they wantonly persecuted the modesty of
strangers, which they disturbed by a gratuitous jeering, feeding thereon
their malicious birth. Nothing can be liker the very actions of devils than
these. What then could they be more truly called than "Subverters"?
themselves subverted and altogether perverted first, the deceiving spirits
secretly deriding and seducing them, wherein themselves delight to jeer at
and deceive others.
Among such as these, in that unsettled age of mine, learned I books of
eloquence, wherein I desired to be eminent, out of a damnable and
vainglorious end, a joy in human vanity. In the ordinary course of study, I
fell upon a certain book of Cicero, whose speech almost all admire, not so
his heart. This book of his contains an exhortation to philosophy, and is

called "Hortensius." But this book altered my affections, and turned my
prayers to Thyself O Lord; and made me have other purposes and desires.
Every vain hope at once became worthless to me; and I longed with an
incredibly burning desire for an immortality of wisdom, and began now to
arise, that I might return to Thee. For not to sharpen my tongue (which
thing I seemed to be purchasing with my mother's allowances, in that my
nineteenth year, my father being dead two years before), not to sharpen my
tongue did I employ that book; nor did it infuse into me its style, but its
matter.
How did I burn then, my God, how did I burn to re-mount from earthly
things to Thee, nor knew I what Thou wouldest do with me? For with Thee
is wisdom. But the love of wisdom is in Greek called "philosophy," with
which that book inflamed me. Some there be that seduce through
philosophy, under a great, and smooth, and honourable name colouring and
disguising their own errors: and almost all who in that and former ages were
such, are in that book censured and set forth: there also is made plain that
wholesome advice of Thy Spirit, by Thy good and devout servant: Beware
lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the
tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ. For
in Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And since at that
time (Thou, O light of my heart, knowest) Apostolic Scripture was not
known to me, I was delighted with that exhortation, so far only, that I was
thereby strongly roused, and kindled, and inflamed to love, and seek, and
obtain, and hold, and embrace not this or that sect, but wisdom itself
whatever it were; and this alone checked me thus unkindled, that the name
of Christ was not in it. For this name, according to Thy mercy, O Lord, this
name of my Saviour Thy Son, had my tender heart, even with my mother's
milk, devoutly drunk in and deeply treasured; and whatsoever was without
that name, though never so learned, polished, or true, took not entire hold of
me.
I resolved then to bend my mind to the holy Scriptures, that I might see
what they were. But behold, I see a thing not understood by the proud, nor
laid open to children, lowly in access, in its recesses lofty, and veiled with
mysteries; and I was not such as could enter into it, or stoop my neck to
follow its steps. For not as I now speak, did I feel when I turned to those
Scriptures; but they seemed to me unworthy to be compared to the
stateliness of Tully: for my swelling pride shrunk from their lowliness, nor

could my sharp wit pierce the interior thereof. Yet were they such as would
grow up in a little one. But I disdained to be a little one; and, swollen with
pride, took myself to be a great one.
Therefore I fell among men proudly doting, exceeding carnal and prating,
in whose mouths were the snares of the Devil, limed with the mixture of the
syllables of Thy name, and of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Holy Ghost,
the Paraclete, our Comforter. These names departed not out of their mouth,
but so far forth as the sound only and the noise of the tongue, for the heart
was void of truth. Yet they cried out "Truth, Truth," and spake much thereof
to me, yet it was not in them: but they spake falsehood, not of Thee only
(who truly art Truth), but even of those elements of this world, Thy
creatures. And I indeed ought to have passed by even philosophers who
spake truth concerning them, for love of Thee, my Father, supremely good,
Beauty of all things beautiful. O Truth, Truth, how inwardly did even then
the marrow of my soul pant after Thee, when they often and diversely, and
in many and huge books, echoed of Thee to me, though it was but an echo?
And these were the dishes wherein to me, hungering after Thee, they,
instead of Thee, served up the Sun and Moon, beautiful works of Thine, but
yet Thy works, not Thyself, no nor Thy first works. For Thy spiritual works
are before these corporeal works, celestial though they be, and shining. But
I hungered and thirsted not even after those first works of Thine, but after
Thee Thyself, the Truth, in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of
turning: yet they still set before me in those dishes, glittering fantasies, than
which better were it to love this very sun (which is real to our sight at least),
than those fantasies which by our eyes deceive our mind. Yet because I
thought them to be Thee, I fed thereon; not eagerly, for Thou didst not in
them taste to me as Thou art; for Thou wast not these emptinesses, nor was
I nourished by them, but exhausted rather. Food in sleep shows very like
our food awake; yet are not those asleep nourished by it, for they are asleep.
But those were not even any way like to Thee, as Thou hast now spoken to
me; for those were corporeal fantasies, false bodies, than which these true
bodies, celestial or terrestrial, which with our fleshly sight we behold, are
far more certain: these things the beasts and birds discern as well as we, and
they are more certain than when we fancy them. And again, we do with
more certainty fancy them, than by them conjecture other vaster and infinite
bodies which have no being. Such empty husks was I then fed on; and was
not fed. But Thou, my soul's Love, in looking for whom I fail, that I may

become strong, art neither those bodies which we see, though in heaven;
nor those which we see not there; for Thou hast created them, nor dost Thou
account them among the chiefest of Thy works. How far then art Thou from
those fantasies of mine, fantasies of bodies which altogether are not, than
which the images of those bodies, which are, are far more certain, and more
certain still the bodies themselves, which yet Thou art not; no, nor yet the
soul, which is the life of the bodies. So then, better and more certain is the
life of the bodies than the bodies. But Thou art the life of souls, the life of
lives, having life in Thyself; and changest not, life of my soul.
Where then wert Thou then to me, and how far from me? Far verily was I
straying from Thee, barred from the very husks of the swine, whom with
husks I fed. For how much better are the fables of poets and grammarians
than these snares? For verses, and poems, and "Medea flying," are more
profitable truly than these men's five elements, variously disguised,
answering to five dens of darkness, which have no being, yet slay the
believer. For verses and poems I can turn to true food, and "Medea flying,"
though I did sing, I maintained not; though I heard it sung, I believed not:
but those things I did believe. Woe, woe, by what steps was I brought down
to the depths of hell! toiling and turmoiling through want of Truth, since I
sought after Thee, my God (to Thee I confess it, who hadst mercy on me,
not as yet confessing), not according to the understanding of the mind,
wherein Thou willedst that I should excel the beasts, but according to the
sense of the flesh. But Thou wert more inward to me than my most inward
part; and higher than my highest. I lighted upon that bold woman, simple
and knoweth nothing, shadowed out in Solomon, sitting at the door, and
saying, Eat ye bread of secrecies willingly, and drink ye stolen waters
which are sweet: she seduced me, because she found my soul dwelling
abroad in the eye of my flesh, and ruminating on such food as through it I
had devoured.
For other than this, that which really is I knew not; and was, as it were
through sharpness of wit, persuaded to assent to foolish deceivers, when
they asked me, "whence is evil?" "is God bounded by a bodily shape, and
has hairs and nails?" "are they to be esteemed righteous who had many
wives at once, and did kill men, and sacrifice living creatures?" At which I,
in my ignorance, was much troubled, and departing from the truth, seemed
to myself to be making towards it; because as yet I knew not that evil was
nothing but a privation of good, until at last a thing ceases altogether to be;

which how should I see, the sight of whose eyes reached only to bodies, and
of my mind to a phantasm? And I knew not God to be a Spirit, not one who
hath parts extended in length and breadth, or whose being was bulk; for
every bulk is less in a part than in the whole: and if it be infinite, it must be
less in such part as is defined by a certain space, than in its infinitude; and
so is not wholly every where, as Spirit, as God. And what that should be in
us, by which we were like to God, and might be rightly said to be after the
image of God, I was altogether ignorant.
Nor knew I that true inward righteousness which judgeth not according to
custom, but out of the most rightful law of God Almighty, whereby the
ways of places and times were disposed according to those times and
places; itself meantime being the same always and every where, not one
thing in one place, and another in another; according to which Abraham,
and Isaac, and Jacob, and Moses, and David, were righteous, and all those
commended by the mouth of God; but were judged unrighteous by silly
men, judging out of man's judgment, and measuring by their own petty
habits, the moral habits of the whole human race. As if in an armory, one
ignorant what were adapted to each part should cover his head with greaves,
or seek to be shod with a helmet, and complain that they fitted not: or as if
on a day when business is publicly stopped in the afternoon, one were
angered at not being allowed to keep open shop, because he had been in the
forenoon; or when in one house he observeth some servant take a thing in
his hand, which the butler is not suffered to meddle with; or something
permitted out of doors, which is forbidden in the dining-room; and should
be angry, that in one house, and one family, the same thing is not allotted
every where, and to all. Even such are they who are fretted to hear
something to have been lawful for righteous men formerly, which now is
not; or that God, for certain temporal respects, commanded them one thing,
and these another, obeying both the same righteousness: whereas they see,
in one man, and one day, and one house, different things to be fit for
different members, and a thing formerly lawful, after a certain time not so;
in one corner permitted or commanded, but in another rightly forbidden and
punished. Is justice therefore various or mutable? No, but the times, over
which it presides, flow not evenly, because they are times. But men whose
days are few upon the earth, for that by their senses they cannot harmonise
the causes of things in former ages and other nations, which they had not
experience of, with these which they have experience of, whereas in one

and the same body, day, or family, they easily see what is fitting for each
member, and season, part, and person; to the one they take exceptions, to
the other they submit.
These things I then knew not, nor observed; they struck my sight on all
sides, and I saw them not. I indited verses, in which I might not place every
foot every where, but differently in different metres; nor even in any one
metre the self-same foot in all places. Yet the art itself, by which I indited,
had not different principles for these different cases, but comprised all in
one. Still I saw not how that righteousness, which good and holy men
obeyed, did far more excellently and sublimely contain in one all those
things which God commanded, and in no part varied; although in varying
times it prescribed not every thing at once, but apportioned and enjoined
what was fit for each. And I in my blindness, censured the holy Fathers, not
only wherein they made use of things present as God commanded and
inspired them, but also wherein they were foretelling things to come, as
God was revealing in them.
Can it at any time or place be unjust to love God with all his heart, with
all his soul, and with all his mind; and his neighbour as himself? Therefore
are those foul offences which be against nature, to be every where and at all
times detested and punished; such as were those of the men of Sodom:
which should all nations commit, they should all stand guilty of the same
crime, by the law of God, which hath not so made men that they should so
abuse one another. For even that intercourse which should be between God
and us is violated, when that same nature, of which He is Author, is polluted
by perversity of lust. But those actions which are offences against the
customs of men, are to be avoided according to the customs severally
prevailing; so that a thing agreed upon, and confirmed, by custom or law of
any city or nation, may not be violated at the lawless pleasure of any,
whether native or foreigner. For any part which harmoniseth not with its
whole, is offensive. But when God commands a thing to be done, against
the customs or compact of any people, though it were never by them done
heretofore, it is to be done; and if intermitted, it is to be restored; and if
never ordained, is now to be ordained. For lawful if it be for a king, in the
state which he reigns over, to command that which no one before him, nor
he himself heretofore, had commanded, and to obey him cannot be against
the common weal of the state (nay, it were against it if he were not obeyed,
for to obey princes is a general compact of human society); how much more

unhesitatingly ought we to obey God, in all which He commands, the Ruler
of all His creatures! For as among the powers in man's society, the greater
authority is obeyed in preference to the lesser, so must God above all.
So in acts of violence, where there is a wish to hurt, whether by reproach
or injury; and these either for revenge, as one enemy against another; or for
some profit belonging to another, as the robber to the traveller; or to avoid
some evil, as towards one who is feared; or through envy, as one less
fortunate to one more so, or one well thriven in any thing, to him whose
being on a par with himself he fears, or grieves at, or for the mere pleasure
at another's pain, as spectators of gladiators, or deriders and mockers of
others. These be the heads of iniquity which spring from the lust of the
flesh, of the eye, or of rule, either singly, or two combined, or all together;
and so do men live ill against the three, and seven, that psaltery of ten
strings, Thy Ten Commandments, O God, most high, and most sweet. But
what foul offences can there be against Thee, who canst not be defiled? or
what acts of violence against Thee, who canst not be harmed? But Thou
avengest what men commit against themselves, seeing also when they sin
against Thee, they do wickedly against their own souls, and iniquity gives
itself the lie, by corrupting and perverting their nature, which Thou hast
created and ordained, or by an immoderate use of things allowed, or in
burning in things unallowed, to that use which is against nature; or are
found guilty, raging with heart and tongue against Thee, kicking against the
pricks; or when, bursting the pale of human society, they boldly joy in self-
willed combinations or divisions, according as they have any object to gain
or subject of offence. And these things are done when Thou art forsaken, O
Fountain of Life, who art the only and true Creator and Governor of the
Universe, and by a self-willed pride, any one false thing is selected
therefrom and loved. So then by a humble devoutness we return to Thee;
and Thou cleansest us from our evil habits, and art merciful to their sins
who confess, and hearest the groaning of the prisoner, and loosest us from
the chains which we made for ourselves, if we lift not up against Thee the
horns of an unreal liberty, suffering the loss of all, through covetousness of
more, by loving more our own private good than Thee, the Good of all.
Amidst these offences of foulness and violence, and so many iniquities,
are sins of men, who are on the whole making proficiency; which by those
that judge rightly, are, after the rule of perfection, discommended, yet the
persons commended, upon hope of future fruit, as in the green blade of

growing corn. And there are some, resembling offences of foulness or
violence, which yet are no sins; because they offend neither Thee, our Lord
God, nor human society; when, namely, things fitting for a given period are
obtained for the service of life, and we know not whether out of a lust of
having; or when things are, for the sake of correction, by constituted
authority punished, and we know not whether out of a lust of hurting. Many
an action then which in men's sight is disapproved, is by Thy testimony
approved; and many, by men praised, are (Thou being witness) condemned:
because the show of the action, and the mind of the doer, and the unknown
exigency of the period, severally vary. But when Thou on a sudden
commandest an unwonted and unthought of thing, yea, although Thou hast
sometime forbidden it, and still for the time hidest the reason of Thy
command, and it be against the ordinance of some society of men, who
doubts but it is to be done, seeing that society of men is just which serves
Thee? But blessed are they who know Thy commands! For all things were
done by Thy servants; either to show forth something needful for the
present, or to foreshow things to come.
These things I being ignorant of, scoffed at those Thy holy servants and
prophets. And what gained I by scoffing at them, but to be scoffed at by
Thee, being insensibly and step by step drawn on to those follies, as to
believe that a fig-tree wept when it was plucked, and the tree, its mother,
shed milky tears? Which fig notwithstanding (plucked by some other's, not
his own, guilt) had some Manichaean saint eaten, and mingled with his
bowels, he should breathe out of it angels, yea, there shall burst forth
particles of divinity, at every moan or groan in his prayer, which particles of
the most high and true God had remained bound in that fig, unless they had
been set at liberty by the teeth or belly of some "Elect" saint! And I,
miserable, believed that more mercy was to be shown to the fruits of the
earth than men, for whom they were created. For if any one an hungered,
not a Manichaean, should ask for any, that morsel would seem as it were
condemned to capital punishment, which should be given him.
And Thou sentest Thine hand from above, and drewest my soul out of
that profound darkness, my mother, Thy faithful one, weeping to Thee for
me, more than mothers weep the bodily deaths of their children. For she, by
that faith and spirit which she had from Thee, discerned the death wherein I
lay, and Thou heardest her, O Lord; Thou heardest her, and despisedst not
her tears, when streaming down, they watered the ground under her eyes in

every place where she prayed; yea Thou heardest her. For whence was that
dream whereby Thou comfortedst her; so that she allowed me to live with
her, and to eat at the same table in the house, which she had begun to shrink
from, abhorring and detesting the blasphemies of my error? For she saw
herself standing on a certain wooden rule, and a shining youth coming
towards her, cheerful and smiling upon her, herself grieving, and
overwhelmed with grief. But he having (in order to instruct, as is their wont
not to be instructed) enquired of her the causes of her grief and daily tears,
and she answering that she was bewailing my perdition, he bade her rest
contented, and told her to look and observe, "That where she was, there was
I also." And when she looked, she saw me standing by her in the same rule.
Whence was this, but that Thine ears were towards her heart? O Thou Good
omnipotent, who so carest for every one of us, as if Thou caredst for him
only; and so for all, as if they were but one!
Whence was this also, that when she had told me this vision, and I would
fain bend it to mean, "That she rather should not despair of being one day
what I was"; she presently, without any hesitation, replies: "No; for it was
not told me that, 'where he, there thou also'; but 'where thou, there he also'?"
I confess to Thee, O Lord, that to the best of my remembrance (and I have
oft spoken of this), that Thy answer, through my waking mother,—that she
was not perplexed by the plausibility of my false interpretation, and so
quickly saw what was to be seen, and which I certainly had not perceived
before she spake,—even then moved me more than the dream itself, by
which a joy to the holy woman, to be fulfilled so long after, was, for the
consolation of her present anguish, so long before foresignified. For almost
nine years passed, in which I wallowed in the mire of that deep pit, and the
darkness of falsehood, often assaying to rise, but dashed down the more
grievously. All which time that chaste, godly, and sober widow (such as
Thou lovest), now more cheered with hope, yet no whit relaxing in her
weeping and mourning, ceased not at all hours of her devotions to bewail
my case unto Thee. And her prayers entered into Thy presence; and yet
Thou sufferedst me to be yet involved and reinvolved in that darkness.
Thou gavest her meantime another answer, which I call to mind; for
much I pass by, hasting to those things which more press me to confess unto
Thee, and much I do not remember. Thou gavest her then another answer,
by a Priest of Thine, a certain Bishop brought up in Thy Church, and well
studied in Thy books. Whom when this woman had entreated to vouchsafe

to converse with me, refute my errors, unteach me ill things, and teach me
good things (for this he was wont to do, when he found persons fitted to
receive it), he refused, wisely, as I afterwards perceived. For he answered,
that I was yet unteachable, being puffed up with the novelty of that heresy,
and had already perplexed divers unskilful persons with captious questions,
as she had told him: "but let him alone a while" (saith he), "only pray God
for him, he will of himself by reading find what that error is, and how great
its impiety." At the same time he told her, how himself, when a little one,
had by his seduced mother been consigned over to the Manichees, and had
not only read, but frequently copied out almost all, their books, and had
(without any argument or proof from any one) seen how much that sect was
to be avoided; and had avoided it. Which when he had said, and she would
not be satisfied, but urged him more, with entreaties and many tears, that he
would see me and discourse with me; he, a little displeased at her
importunity, saith, "Go thy ways and God bless thee, for it is not possible
that the son of these tears should perish." Which answer she took (as she
often mentioned in her conversations with me) as if it had sounded from
heaven.

BOOK IV

For this space of nine years (from my nineteenth year to my eight-and-
twentieth) we lived seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving, in
divers lusts; openly, by sciences which they call liberal; secretly, with a
false-named religion; here proud, there superstitious, every where vain.
Here, hunting after the emptiness of popular praise, down even to theatrical
applauses, and poetic prizes, and strifes for grassy garlands, and the follies
of shows, and the intemperance of desires. There, desiring to be cleansed
from these defilements, by carrying food to those who were called "elect"
and "holy," out of which, in the workhouse of their stomachs, they should
forge for us Angels and Gods, by whom we might be cleansed. These things
did I follow, and practise with my friends, deceived by me, and with me.
Let the arrogant mock me, and such as have not been, to their soul's health,
stricken and cast down by Thee, O my God; but I would still confess to
Thee mine own shame in Thy praise. Suffer me, I beseech Thee, and give
me grace to go over in my present remembrance the wanderings of my
forepassed time, and to offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For
what am I to myself without Thee, but a guide to mine own downfall? or
what am I even at the best, but an infant sucking the milk Thou givest, and
feeding upon Thee, the food that perisheth not? But what sort of man is any
man, seeing he is but a man? Let now the strong and the mighty laugh at us,
but let us poor and needy confess unto Thee.
In those years I taught rhetoric, and, overcome by cupidity, made sale of
a loquacity to overcome by. Yet I preferred (Lord, Thou knowest) honest
scholars (as they are accounted), and these I, without artifice, taught
artifices, not to be practised against the life of the guiltless, though
sometimes for the life of the guilty. And Thou, O God, from afar
perceivedst me stumbling in that slippery course, and amid much smoke
sending out some sparks of faithfulness, which I showed in that my
guidance of such as loved vanity, and sought after leasing, myself their
companion. In those years I had one,—not in that which is called lawful

marriage, but whom I had found out in a wayward passion, void of
understanding; yet but one, remaining faithful even to her; in whom I in my
own case experienced what difference there is betwixt the self-restraint of
the marriage-covenant, for the sake of issue, and the bargain of a lustful
love, where children are born against their parents' will, although, once
born, they constrain love.
I remember also, that when I had settled to enter the lists for a theatrical
prize, some wizard asked me what I would give him to win; but I, detesting
and abhorring such foul mysteries, answered, "Though the garland were of
imperishable gold, I would not suffer a fly to be killed to gain me it." For he
was to kill some living creatures in his sacrifices, and by those honours to
invite the devils to favour me. But this ill also I rejected, not out of a pure
love for Thee, O God of my heart; for I knew not how to love Thee, who
knew not how to conceive aught beyond a material brightness. And doth not
a soul, sighing after such fictions, commit fornication against Thee, trust in
things unreal, and feed the wind? Still I would not forsooth have sacrifices
offered to devils for me, to whom I was sacrificing myself by that
superstition. For what else is it to feed the wind, but to feed them, that is by
going astray to become their pleasure and derision?
Those impostors then, whom they style Mathematicians, I consulted
without scruple; because they seemed to use no sacrifice, nor to pray to any
spirit for their divinations: which art, however, Christian and true piety
consistently rejects and condemns. For, it is a good thing to confess unto
Thee, and to say, Have mercy upon me, heal my soul, for I have sinned
against Thee; and not to abuse Thy mercy for a licence to sin, but to
remember the Lord's words, Behold, thou art made whole, sin no more, lest
a worse thing come unto thee. All which wholesome advice they labour to
destroy, saying, "The cause of thy sin is inevitably determined in heaven";
and "This did Venus, or Saturn, or Mars": that man, forsooth, flesh and
blood, and proud corruption, might be blameless; while the Creator and
Ordainer of heaven and the stars is to bear the blame. And who is He but
our God? the very sweetness and well-spring of righteousness, who
renderest to every man according to his works: and a broken and contrite
heart wilt Thou not despise.
There was in those days a wise man, very skilful in physic, and renowned
therein, who had with his own proconsular hand put the Agonistic garland

upon my distempered head, but not as a physician: for this disease Thou
only curest, who resistest the proud, and givest grace to the humble. But
didst Thou fail me even by that old man, or forbear to heal my soul? For
having become more acquainted with him, and hanging assiduously and
fixedly on his speech (for though in simple terms, it was vivid, lively, and
earnest), when he had gathered by my discourse that I was given to the
books of nativity-casters, he kindly and fatherly advised me to cast them
away, and not fruitlessly bestow a care and diligence, necessary for useful
things, upon these vanities; saying, that he had in his earliest years studied
that art, so as to make it the profession whereby he should live, and that,
understanding Hippocrates, he could soon have understood such a study as
this; and yet he had given it over, and taken to physic, for no other reason
but that he found it utterly false; and he, a grave man, would not get his
living by deluding people. "But thou," saith he, "hast rhetoric to maintain
thyself by, so that thou followest this of free choice, not of necessity: the
more then oughtest thou to give me credit herein, who laboured to acquire it
so perfectly as to get my living by it alone." Of whom when I had
demanded, how then could many true things be foretold by it, he answered
me (as he could) "that the force of chance, diffused throughout the whole
order of things, brought this about. For if when a man by haphazard opens
the pages of some poet, who sang and thought of something wholly
different, a verse oftentimes fell out, wondrously agreeable to the present
business: it were not to be wondered at, if out of the soul of man,
unconscious what takes place in it, by some higher instinct an answer
should be given, by hap, not by art, corresponding to the business and
actions of the demander."
And thus much, either from or through him, Thou conveyedst to me, and
tracedst in my memory, what I might hereafter examine for myself. But at
that time neither he, nor my dearest Nebridius, a youth singularly good and
of a holy fear, who derided the whole body of divination, could persuade
me to cast it aside, the authority of the authors swaying me yet more, and as
yet I had found no certain proof (such as I sought) whereby it might without
all doubt appear, that what had been truly foretold by those consulted was
the result of haphazard, not of the art of the star-gazers.
In those years when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I
had made one my friend, but too dear to me, from a community of pursuits,
of mine own age, and, as myself, in the first opening flower of youth. He

had grown up of a child with me, and we had been both school-fellows and
play-fellows. But he was not yet my friend as afterwards, nor even then, as
true friendship is; for true it cannot be, unless in such as Thou cementest
together, cleaving unto Thee, by that love which is shed abroad in our hearts
by the Holy Ghost, which is given unto us. Yet was it but too sweet, ripened
by the warmth of kindred studies: for, from the true faith (which he as a
youth had not soundly and thoroughly imbibed), I had warped him also to
those superstitious and pernicious fables, for which my mother bewailed
me. With me he now erred in mind, nor could my soul be without him. But
behold Thou wert close on the steps of Thy fugitives, at once God of
vengeance, and Fountain of mercies, turning us to Thyself by wonderful
means; Thou tookest that man out of this life, when he had scarce filled up
one whole year of my friendship, sweet to me above all sweetness of that
my life.
Who can recount all Thy praises, which he hath felt in his one self? What
diddest Thou then, my God, and how unsearchable is the abyss of Thy
judgments? For long, sore sick of a fever, he lay senseless in a death-sweat;
and his recovery being despaired of, he was baptised, unknowing; myself
meanwhile little regarding, and presuming that his soul would retain rather
what it had received of me, not what was wrought on his unconscious body.
But it proved far otherwise: for he was refreshed, and restored. Forthwith,
as soon as I could speak with him (and I could, so soon as he was able, for I
never left him, and we hung but too much upon each other), I essayed to
jest with him, as though he would jest with me at that baptism which he had
received, when utterly absent in mind and feeling, but had now understood
that he had received. But he so shrunk from me, as from an enemy; and
with a wonderful and sudden freedom bade me, as I would continue his
friend, forbear such language to him. I, all astonished and amazed,
suppressed all my emotions till he should grow well, and his health were
strong enough for me to deal with him as I would. But he was taken away
from my frenzy, that with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort; a
few days after in my absence, he was attacked again by the fever, and so
departed.
At this grief my heart was utterly darkened; and whatever I beheld was
death. My native country was a torment to me, and my father's house a
strange unhappiness; and whatever I had shared with him, wanting him,
became a distracting torture. Mine eyes sought him every where, but he was

not granted them; and I hated all places, for that they had not him; nor could
they now tell me, "he is coming," as when he was alive and absent. I
became a great riddle to myself, and I asked my soul, why she was so sad,
and why she disquieted me sorely: but she knew not what to answer me.
And if I said, Trust in God, she very rightly obeyed me not; because that
most dear friend, whom she had lost, was, being man, both truer and better
than that phantasm she was bid to trust in. Only tears were sweet to me, for
they succeeded my friend, in the dearest of my affections.
And now, Lord, these things are passed by, and time hath assuaged my
wound. May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and approach the ear of my
heart unto Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping is sweet to
the miserable? Hast Thou, although present every where, cast away our
misery far from Thee? And Thou abidest in Thyself, but we are tossed about
in divers trials. And yet unless we mourned in Thine ears, we should have
no hope left. Whence then is sweet fruit gathered from the bitterness of life,
from groaning, tears, sighs, and complaints? Doth this sweeten it, that we
hope Thou hearest? This is true of prayer, for therein is a longing to
approach unto Thee. But is it also in grief for a thing lost, and the sorrow
wherewith I was then overwhelmed? For I neither hoped he should return to
life nor did I desire this with my tears; but I wept only and grieved. For I
was miserable, and had lost my joy. Or is weeping indeed a bitter thing, and
for very loathing of the things which we before enjoyed, does it then, when
we shrink from them, please us?
But what speak I of these things? for now is no time to question, but to
confess unto Thee. Wretched I was; and wretched is every soul bound by
the friendship of perishable things; he is torn asunder when he loses them,
and then he feels the wretchedness which he had ere yet he lost them. So
was it then with me; I wept most bitterly, and found my repose in bitterness.
Thus was I wretched, and that wretched life I held dearer than my friend.
For though I would willingly have changed it, yet was I more unwilling to
part with it than with him; yea, I know not whether I would have parted
with it even for him, as is related (if not feigned) of Pylades and Orestes,
that they would gladly have died for each other or together, not to live
together being to them worse than death. But in me there had arisen some
unexplained feeling, too contrary to this, for at once I loathed exceedingly
to live and feared to die. I suppose, the more I loved him, the more did I
hate, and fear (as a most cruel enemy) death, which had bereaved me of

him: and I imagined it would speedily make an end of all men, since it had
power over him. Thus was it with me, I remember. Behold my heart, O my
God, behold and see into me; for well I remember it, O my Hope, who
cleansest me from the impurity of such affections, directing mine eyes
towards Thee, and plucking my feet out of the snare. For I wondered that
others, subject to death, did live, since he whom I loved, as if he should
never die, was dead; and I wondered yet more that myself, who was to him
a second self, could live, he being dead. Well said one of his friend, "Thou
half of my soul"; for I felt that my soul and his soul were "one soul in two
bodies": and therefore was my life a horror to me, because I would not live
halved. And therefore perchance I feared to die, lest he whom I had much
loved should die wholly.
O madness, which knowest not how to love men, like men! O foolish
man that I then was, enduring impatiently the lot of man! I fretted then,
sighed, wept, was distracted; had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore about a
shattered and bleeding soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet where to
repose it, I found not. Not in calm groves, not in games and music, nor in
fragrant spots, nor in curious banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed
and the couch; nor (finally) in books or poesy, found it repose. All things
looked ghastly, yea, the very light; whatsoever was not what he was, was
revolting and hateful, except groaning and tears. For in those alone found I
a little refreshment. But when my soul was withdrawn from them a huge
load of misery weighed me down. To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been
raised, for Thee to lighten; I knew it; but neither could nor would; the more,
since, when I thought of Thee, Thou wert not to me any solid or substantial
thing. For Thou wert not Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was
my God. If I offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might rest, it
glided through the void, and came rushing down again on me; and I had
remained to myself a hapless spot, where I could neither be, nor be from
thence. For whither should my heart flee from my heart? Whither should I
flee from myself? Whither not follow myself? And yet I fled out of my
country; for so should mine eyes less look for him, where they were not
wont to see him. And thus from Thagaste, I came to Carthage.
Times lose no time; nor do they roll idly by; through our senses they
work strange operations on the mind. Behold, they went and came day by
day, and by coming and going, introduced into my mind other imaginations
and other remembrances; and little by little patched me up again with my

old kind of delights, unto which that my sorrow gave way. And yet there
succeeded, not indeed other griefs, yet the causes of other griefs. For
whence had that former grief so easily reached my very inmost soul, but
that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one that must die, as
if he would never die? For what restored and refreshed me chiefly was the
solaces of other friends, with whom I did love, what instead of Thee I
loved; and this was a great fable, and protracted lie, by whose adulterous
stimulus, our soul, which lay itching in our ears, was being defiled. But that
fable would not die to me, so oft as any of my friends died. There were
other things which in them did more take my mind; to talk and jest together,
to do kind offices by turns; to read together honied books; to play the fool
or be earnest together; to dissent at times without discontent, as a man
might with his own self; and even with the seldomness of these dissentings,
to season our more frequent consentings; sometimes to teach, and
sometimes learn; long for the absent with impatience; and welcome the
coming with joy. These and the like expressions, proceeding out of the
hearts of those that loved and were loved again, by the countenance, the
tongue, the eyes, and a thousand pleasing gestures, were so much fuel to
melt our souls together, and out of many make but one.
This is it that is loved in friends; and so loved, that a man's conscience
condemns itself, if he love not him that loves him again, or love not again
him that loves him, looking for nothing from his person but indications of
his love. Hence that mourning, if one die, and darkenings of sorrows, that
steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned to bitterness; and upon
the loss of life of the dying, the death of the living. Blessed whoso loveth
Thee, and his friend in Thee, and his enemy for Thee. For he alone loses
none dear to him, to whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who
is this but our God, the God that made heaven and earth, and filleth them,
because by filling them He created them? Thee none loseth, but who
leaveth. And who leaveth Thee, whither goeth or whither fleeth he, but from
Thee well-pleased, to Thee displeased? For where doth he not find Thy law
in his own punishment? And Thy law is truth, and truth Thou.
Turn us, O God of Hosts, show us Thy countenance, and we shall be
whole. For whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless toward Thee, it
is riveted upon sorrows, yea though it is riveted on things beautiful. And yet
they, out of Thee, and out of the soul, were not, unless they were from Thee.
They rise, and set; and by rising, they begin as it were to be; they grow, that

they may be perfected; and perfected, they wax old and wither; and all grow
not old, but all wither. So then when they rise and tend to be, the more
quickly they grow that they may be, so much the more they haste not to be.
This is the law of them. Thus much has Thou allotted them, because they
are portions of things, which exist not all at once, but by passing away and
succeeding, they together complete that universe, whereof they are portions.
And even thus is our speech completed by signs giving forth a sound: but
this again is not perfected unless one word pass away when it hath sounded
its part, that another may succeed. Out of all these things let my soul praise
Thee, O God, Creator of all; yet let not my soul be riveted unto these things
with the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For they go whither
they were to go, that they might not be; and they rend her with pestilent
longings, because she longs to be, yet loves to repose in what she loves. But
in these things is no place of repose; they abide not, they flee; and who can
follow them with the senses of the flesh? yea, who can grasp them, when
they are hard by? For the sense of the flesh is slow, because it is the sense
of the flesh; and thereby is it bounded. It sufficeth for that it was made for;
but it sufficeth not to stay things running their course from their appointed
starting-place to the end appointed. For in Thy Word, by which they are
created, they hear their decree, "hence and hitherto."
Be not foolish, O my soul, nor become deaf in the ear of thine heart with
the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou too. The Word itself calleth thee to
return: and there is the place of rest imperturbable, where love is not
forsaken, if itself forsaketh not. Behold, these things pass away, that others
may replace them, and so this lower universe be completed by all his parts.
But do I depart any whither? saith the Word of God. There fix thy dwelling,
trust there whatsoever thou hast thence, O my soul, at least now thou art
tired out with vanities. Entrust Truth, whatsoever thou hast from the Truth,
and thou shalt lose nothing; and thy decay shall bloom again, and all thy
diseases be healed, and thy mortal parts be reformed and renewed, and
bound around thee: nor shall they lay thee whither themselves descend; but
they shall stand fast with thee, and abide for ever before God, Who abideth
and standeth fast for ever.
Why then be perverted and follow thy flesh? Be it converted and follow
thee. Whatever by her thou hast sense of, is in part; and the whole, whereof
these are parts, thou knowest not; and yet they delight thee. But had the
sense of thy flesh a capacity for comprehending the whole, and not itself

also, for thy punishment, been justly restricted to a part of the whole, thou
wouldest, that whatsoever existeth at this present, should pass away, that so
the whole might better please thee. For what we speak also, by the same
sense of the flesh thou hearest; yet wouldest not thou have the syllables
stay, but fly away, that others may come, and thou hear the whole. And so
ever, when any one thing is made up of many, all of which do not exist
together, all collectively would please more than they do severally, could all
be perceived collectively. But far better than these is He who made all; and
He is our God, nor doth He pass away, for neither doth aught succeed Him.
If bodies please thee, praise God on occasion of them, and turn back thy
love upon their Maker; lest in these things which please thee, thou
displease. If souls please thee, be they loved in God: for they too are
mutable, but in Him are they firmly stablished; else would they pass, and
pass away. In Him then be they beloved; and carry unto Him along with
thee what souls thou canst, and say to them, "Him let us love, Him let us
love: He made these, nor is He far off. For He did not make them, and so
depart, but they are of Him, and in Him. See there He is, where truth is
loved. He is within the very heart, yet hath the heart strayed from Him. Go
back into your heart, ye transgressors, and cleave fast to Him that made
you. Stand with Him, and ye shall stand fast. Rest in Him, and ye shall be at
rest. Whither go ye in rough ways? Whither go ye? The good that you love
is from Him; but it is good and pleasant through reference to Him, and
justly shall it be embittered, because unjustly is any thing loved which is
from Him, if He be forsaken for it. To what end then would ye still and still
walk these difficult and toilsome ways? There is no rest, where ye seek it.
Seek what ye seek; but it is not there where ye seek. Ye seek a blessed life
in the land of death; it is not there. For how should there be a blessed life
where life itself is not?
"But our true Life came down hither, and bore our death, and slew him,
out of the abundance of His own life: and He thundered, calling aloud to us
to return hence to Him into that secret place, whence He came forth to us,
first into the Virgin's womb, wherein He espoused the human creation, our
mortal flesh, that it might not be for ever mortal, and thence like a
bridegroom coming out of his chamber, rejoicing as a giant to run his
course. For He lingered not, but ran, calling aloud by words, deeds, death,
life, descent, ascension; crying aloud to us to return unto Him. And He
departed from our eyes, that we might return into our heart, and there find

Him. For He departed, and lo, He is here. He would not be long with us, yet
left us not; for He departed thither, whence He never parted, because the
world was made by Him. And in this world He was, and into this world He
came to save sinners, unto whom my soul confesseth, and He healeth it, for
it hath sinned against Him. O ye sons of men, how long so slow of heart?
Even now, after the descent of Life to you, will ye not ascend and live? But
whither ascend ye, when ye are on high, and set your mouth against the
heavens? Descend, that ye may ascend, and ascend to God. For ye have
fallen, by ascending against Him." Tell them this, that they may weep in the
valley of tears, and so carry them up with thee unto God; because out of His
spirit thou speakest thus unto them, if thou speakest, burning with the fire of
charity.
These things I then knew not, and I loved these lower beauties, and I was
sinking to the very depths, and to my friends I said, "Do we love any thing
but the beautiful? What then is the beautiful? and what is beauty? What is it
that attracts and wins us to the things we love? for unless there were in them
a grace and beauty, they could by no means draw us unto them." And I
marked and perceived that in bodies themselves, there was a beauty, from
their forming a sort of whole, and again, another from apt and mutual
correspondence, as of a part of the body with its whole, or a shoe with a
foot, and the like. And this consideration sprang up in my mind, out of my
inmost heart, and I wrote "on the fair and fit," I think, two or three books.
Thou knowest, O Lord, for it is gone from me; for I have them not, but they
are strayed from me, I know not how.
But what moved me, O Lord my God, to dedicate these books unto
Hierius, an orator of Rome, whom I knew not by face, but loved for the
fame of his learning which was eminent in him, and some words of his I
had heard, which pleased me? But more did he please me, for that he
pleased others, who highly extolled him, amazed that out of a Syrian, first
instructed in Greek eloquence, should afterwards be formed a wonderful
Latin orator, and one most learned in things pertaining unto philosophy.
One is commended, and, unseen, he is loved: doth this love enter the heart
of the hearer from the mouth of the commender? Not so. But by one who
loveth is another kindled. For hence he is loved who is commended, when
the commender is believed to extol him with an unfeigned heart; that is,
when one that loves him, praises him.

For so did I then love men, upon the judgment of men, not Thine, O my
God, in Whom no man is deceived. But yet why not for qualities, like those
of a famous charioteer, or fighter with beasts in the theatre, known far and
wide by a vulgar popularity, but far otherwise, and earnestly, and so as I
would be myself commended? For I would not be commended or loved, as
actors are (though I myself did commend and love them), but had rather be
unknown, than so known; and even hated, than so loved. Where now are the
impulses to such various and divers kinds of loves laid up in one soul?
Why, since we are equally men, do I love in another what, if I did not hate, I
should not spurn and cast from myself? For it holds not, that as a good
horse is loved by him, who would not, though he might, be that horse,
therefore the same may be said of an actor, who shares our nature. Do I then
love in a man, what I hate to be, who am a man? Man himself is a great
deep, whose very hairs Thou numberest, O Lord, and they fall not to the
ground without Thee. And yet are the hairs of his head easier to be
numbered than his feelings, and the beatings of his heart.
But that orator was of that sort whom I loved, as wishing to be myself
such; and I erred through a swelling pride, and was tossed about with every
wind, but yet was steered by Thee, though very secretly. And whence do I
know, and whence do I confidently confess unto Thee, that I had loved him
more for the love of his commenders, than for the very things for which he
was commended? Because, had he been unpraised, and these self-same men
had dispraised him, and with dispraise and contempt told the very same
things of him, I had never been so kindled and excited to love him. And yet
the things had not been other, nor he himself other; but only the feelings of
the relators. See where the impotent soul lies along, that is not yet stayed up
by the solidity of truth! Just as the gales of tongues blow from the breast of
the opinionative, so is it carried this way and that, driven forward and
backward, and the light is overclouded to it, and the truth unseen. And lo, it
is before us. And it was to me a great matter, that my discourse and labours
should be known to that man: which should he approve, I were the more
kindled; but if he disapproved, my empty heart, void of Thy solidity, had
been wounded. And yet the "fair and fit," whereon I wrote to him, I dwelt
on with pleasure, and surveyed it, and admired it, though none joined
therein.
But I saw not yet, whereon this weighty matter turned in Thy wisdom, O
Thou Omnipotent, who only doest wonders; and my mind ranged through

corporeal forms; and "fair," I defined and distinguished what is so in itself,
and "fit," whose beauty is in correspondence to some other thing: and this I
supported by corporeal examples. And I turned to the nature of the mind,
but the false notion which I had of spiritual things, let me not see the truth.
Yet the force of truth did of itself flash into mine eyes, and I turned away
my panting soul from incorporeal substance to lineaments, and colours, and
bulky magnitudes. And not being able to see these in the mind, I thought I
could not see my mind. And whereas in virtue I loved peace, and in
viciousness I abhorred discord; in the first I observed a unity, but in the
other, a sort of division. And in that unity I conceived the rational soul, and
the nature of truth and of the chief good to consist; but in this division I
miserably imagined there to be some unknown substance of irrational life,
and the nature of the chief evil, which should not only be a substance, but
real life also, and yet not derived from Thee, O my God, of whom are all
things. And yet that first I called a Monad, as it had been a soul without sex;
but the latter a Duad;—anger, in deeds of violence, and in flagitiousness,
lust; not knowing whereof I spake. For I had not known or learned that
neither was evil a substance, nor our soul that chief and unchangeable good.
For as deeds of violence arise, if that emotion of the soul be corrupted,
whence vehement action springs, stirring itself insolently and unrulily; and
lusts, when that affection of the soul is ungoverned, whereby carnal
pleasures are drunk in, so do errors and false opinions defile the
conversation, if the reasonable soul itself be corrupted; as it was then in me,
who knew not that it must be enlightened by another light, that it may be
partaker of truth, seeing itself is not that nature of truth. For Thou shalt light
my candle, O Lord my God, Thou shalt enlighten my darkness: and of Thy
fulness have we all received, for Thou art the true light that lighteth every
man that cometh into the world; for in Thee there is no variableness, neither
shadow of change.
But I pressed towards Thee, and was thrust from Thee, that I might taste
of death: for thou resistest the proud. But what prouder, than for me with a
strange madness to maintain myself to be that by nature which Thou art?
For whereas I was subject to change (so much being manifest to me, my
very desire to become wise, being the wish, of worse to become better), yet
chose I rather to imagine Thee subject to change, and myself not to be that
which Thou art. Therefore I was repelled by Thee, and Thou resistedst my
vain stiffneckedness, and I imagined corporeal forms, and, myself flesh, I

accused flesh; and, a wind that passeth away, I returned not to Thee, but I
passed on and on to things which have no being, neither in Thee, nor in me,
nor in the body. Neither were they created for me by Thy truth, but by my
vanity devised out of things corporeal. And I was wont to ask Thy faithful
little ones, my fellow-citizens (from whom, unknown to myself, I stood
exiled), I was wont, prating and foolishly, to ask them, "Why then doth the
soul err which God created?" But I would not be asked, "Why then doth
God err?" And I maintained that Thy unchangeable substance did err upon
constraint, rather than confess that my changeable substance had gone
astray voluntarily, and now, in punishment, lay in error.
I was then some six or seven and twenty years old when I wrote those
volumes; revolving within me corporeal fictions, buzzing in the ears of my
heart, which I turned, O sweet truth, to thy inward melody, meditating on
the "fair and fit," and longing to stand and hearken to Thee, and to rejoice
greatly at the Bridegroom's voice, but could not; for by the voices of mine
own errors, I was hurried abroad, and through the weight of my own pride, I
was sinking into the lowest pit. For Thou didst not make me to hear joy and
gladness, nor did the bones exult which were not yet humbled.
And what did it profit me, that scarce twenty years old, a book of
Aristotle, which they call the ten Predicaments, falling into my hands (on
whose very name I hung, as on something great and divine, so often as my
rhetoric master of Carthage, and others, accounted learned, mouthed it with
cheeks bursting with pride), I read and understood it unaided? And on my
conferring with others, who said that they scarcely understood it with very
able tutors, not only orally explaining it, but drawing many things in sand,
they could tell me no more of it than I had learned, reading it by myself.
And the book appeared to me to speak very clearly of substances, such as
"man," and of their qualities, as the figure of a man, of what sort it is; and
stature, how many feet high; and his relationship, whose brother he is; or
where placed; or when born; or whether he stands or sits; or be shod or
armed; or does, or suffers anything; and all the innumerable things which
might be ranged under these nine Predicaments, of which I have given some
specimens, or under that chief Predicament of Substance.
What did all this further me, seeing it even hindered me? when,
imagining whatever was, was comprehended under those ten Predicaments,
I essayed in such wise to understand, O my God, Thy wonderful and

unchangeable Unity also, as if Thou also hadst been subjected to Thine own
greatness or beauty; so that (as in bodies) they should exist in Thee, as their
subject: whereas Thou Thyself art Thy greatness and beauty; but a body is
not great or fair in that it is a body, seeing that, though it were less great or
fair, it should notwithstanding be a body. But it was falsehood which of
Thee I conceived, not truth, fictions of my misery, not the realities of Thy
blessedness. For Thou hadst commanded, and it was done in me, that the
earth should bring forth briars and thorns to me, and that in the sweat of my
brows I should eat my bread.
And what did it profit me, that all the books I could procure of the so-
called liberal arts, I, the vile slave of vile affections, read by myself, and
understood? And I delighted in them, but knew not whence came all, that
therein was true or certain. For I had my back to the light, and my face to
the things enlightened; whence my face, with which I discerned the things
enlightened, itself was not enlightened. Whatever was written, either on
rhetoric, or logic, geometry, music, and arithmetic, by myself without much
difficulty or any instructor, I understood, Thou knowest, O Lord my God;
because both quickness of understanding, and acuteness in discerning, is
Thy gift: yet did I not thence sacrifice to Thee. So then it served not to my
use, but rather to my perdition, since I went about to get so good a portion
of my substance into my own keeping; and I kept not my strength for Thee,
but wandered from Thee into a far country, to spend it upon harlotries. For
what profited me good abilities, not employed to good uses? For I felt not
that those arts were attained with great difficulty, even by the studious and
talented, until I attempted to explain them to such; when he most excelled
in them who followed me not altogether slowly.
But what did this further me, imagining that Thou, O Lord God, the
Truth, wert a vast and bright body, and I a fragment of that body?
Perverseness too great! But such was I. Nor do I blush, O my God, to
confess to Thee Thy mercies towards me, and to call upon Thee, who
blushed not then to profess to men my blasphemies, and to bark against
Thee. What profited me then my nimble wit in those sciences and all those
most knotty volumes, unravelled by me, without aid from human
instruction; seeing I erred so foully, and with such sacrilegious
shamefulness, in the doctrine of piety? Or what hindrance was a far slower
wit to Thy little ones, since they departed not far from Thee, that in the nest
of Thy Church they might securely be fledged, and nourish the wings of

charity, by the food of a sound faith. O Lord our God, under the shadow of
Thy wings let us hope; protect us, and carry us. Thou wilt carry us both
when little, and even to hoar hairs wilt Thou carry us; for our firmness,
when it is Thou, then is it firmness; but when our own, it is infirmity. Our
good ever lives with Thee; from which when we turn away, we are turned
aside. Let us now, O Lord, return, that we may not be overturned, because
with Thee our good lives without any decay, which good art Thou; nor need
we fear, lest there be no place whither to return, because we fell from it: for
through our absence, our mansion fell not—Thy eternity.

BOOK V

Accept the sacrifice of my confessions from the ministry of my tongue,
which Thou hast formed and stirred up to confess unto Thy name. Heal
Thou all my bones, and let them say, O Lord, who is like unto Thee? For he
who confesses to Thee doth not teach Thee what takes place within him;
seeing a closed heart closes not out Thy eye, nor can man's hard-
heartedness thrust back Thy hand: for Thou dissolvest it at Thy will in pity
or in vengeance, and nothing can hide itself from Thy heat. But let my soul
praise Thee, that it may love Thee; and let it confess Thy own mercies to
Thee, that it may praise Thee. Thy whole creation ceaseth not, nor is silent
in Thy praises; neither the spirit of man with voice directed unto Thee, nor
creation animate or inanimate, by the voice of those who meditate thereon:
that so our souls may from their weariness arise towards Thee, leaning on
those things which Thou hast created, and passing on to Thyself, who
madest them wonderfully; and there is refreshment and true strength.
Let the restless, the godless, depart and flee from Thee; yet Thou seest
them, and dividest the darkness. And behold, the universe with them is fair,
though they are foul. And how have they injured Thee? or how have they
disgraced Thy government, which, from the heaven to this lowest earth, is
just and perfect? For whither fled they, when they fled from Thy presence?
or where dost not Thou find them? But they fled, that they might not see
Thee seeing them, and, blinded, might stumble against Thee (because Thou
forsakest nothing Thou hast made); that the unjust, I say, might stumble
upon Thee, and justly be hurt; withdrawing themselves from thy gentleness,
and stumbling at Thy uprightness, and falling upon their own ruggedness.
Ignorant, in truth, that Thou art every where, Whom no place
encompasseth! and Thou alone art near, even to those that remove far from
Thee. Let them then be turned, and seek Thee; because not as they have
forsaken their Creator, hast Thou forsaken Thy creation. Let them be turned
and seek Thee; and behold, Thou art there in their heart, in the heart of
those that confess to Thee, and cast themselves upon Thee, and weep in Thy

bosom, after all their rugged ways. Then dost Thou gently wipe away their
tears, and they weep the more, and joy in weeping; even for that Thou,
Lord,—not man of flesh and blood, but—Thou, Lord, who madest them, re-
makest and comfortest them. But where was I, when I was seeking Thee?
And Thou wert before me, but I had gone away from Thee; nor did I find
myself, how much less Thee!
I would lay open before my God that nine-and-twentieth year of mine
age. There had then come to Carthage a certain Bishop of the Manichees,
Faustus by name, a great snare of the Devil, and many were entangled by
him through that lure of his smooth language: which though I did
commend, yet could I separate from the truth of the things which I was
earnest to learn: nor did I so much regard the service of oratory as the
science which this Faustus, so praised among them, set before me to feed
upon. Fame had before bespoken him most knowing in all valuable
learning, and exquisitely skilled in the liberal sciences. And since I had read
and well remembered much of the philosophers, I compared some things of
theirs with those long fables of the Manichees, and found the former the
more probable; even although they could only prevail so far as to make
judgment of this lower world, the Lord of it they could by no means find
out. For Thou art great, O Lord, and hast respect unto the humble, but the
proud Thou beholdest afar off. Nor dost Thou draw near, but to the contrite
in heart, nor art found by the proud, no, not though by curious skill they
could number the stars and the sand, and measure the starry heavens, and
track the courses of the planets.
For with their understanding and wit, which Thou bestowedst on them,
they search out these things; and much have they found out; and foretold,
many years before, eclipses of those luminaries, the sun and moon,—what
day and hour, and how many digits,—nor did their calculation fail; and it
came to pass as they foretold; and they wrote down the rules they had found
out, and these are read at this day, and out of them do others foretell in what
year and month of the year, and what day of the month, and what hour of
the day, and what part of its light, moon or sun is to be eclipsed, and so it
shall be, as it is foreshowed. At these things men, that know not this art,
marvel and are astonished, and they that know it, exult, and are puffed up;
and by an ungodly pride departing from Thee, and failing of Thy light, they
foresee a failure of the sun's light, which shall be, so long before, but see
not their own, which is. For they search not religiously whence they have

the wit, wherewith they search out this. And finding that Thou madest them,
they give not themselves up to Thee, to preserve what Thou madest, nor
sacrifice to Thee what they have made themselves; nor slay their own
soaring imaginations, as fowls of the air, nor their own diving curiosities
(wherewith, like the fishes of the sea, they wander over the unknown paths
of the abyss), nor their own luxuriousness, as beasts of the field, that Thou,
Lord, a consuming fire, mayest burn up those dead cares of theirs, and re-
create themselves immortally.
But they knew not the way, Thy Word, by Whom Thou madest these
things which they number, and themselves who number, and the sense
whereby they perceive what they number, and the understanding, out of
which they number; or that of Thy wisdom there is no number. But the Only
Begotten is Himself made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and
sanctification, and was numbered among us, and paid tribute unto Caesar.
They knew not this way whereby to descend to Him from themselves, and
by Him ascend unto Him. They knew not this way, and deemed themselves
exalted amongst the stars and shining; and behold, they fell upon the earth,
and their foolish heart was darkened. They discourse many things truly
concerning the creature; but Truth, Artificer of the creature, they seek not
piously, and therefore find Him not; or if they find Him, knowing Him to be
God, they glorify Him not as God, neither are thankful, but become vain in
their imaginations, and profess themselves to be wise, attributing to
themselves what is Thine; and thereby with most perverse blindness, study
to impute to Thee what is their own, forging lies of Thee who art the Truth,
and changing the glory of uncorruptible God into an image made like
corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things,
changing Thy truth into a lie, and worshipping and serving the creature
more than the Creator.
Yet many truths concerning the creature retained I from these men, and
saw the reason thereof from calculations, the succession of times, and the
visible testimonies of the stars; and compared them with the saying of
Manichaeus, which in his frenzy he had written most largely on these
subjects; but discovered not any account of the solstices, or equinoxes, or
the eclipses of the greater lights, nor whatever of this sort I had learned in
the books of secular philosophy. But I was commanded to believe; and yet
it corresponded not with what had been established by calculations and my
own sight, but was quite contrary.

Doth then, O Lord God of truth, whoso knoweth these things, therefore
please Thee? Surely unhappy is he who knoweth all these, and knoweth not
Thee: but happy whoso knoweth Thee, though he know not these. And
whoso knoweth both Thee and them is not the happier for them, but for
Thee only, if, knowing Thee, he glorifies Thee as God, and is thankful, and
becomes not vain in his imaginations. For as he is better off who knows
how to possess a tree, and return thanks to Thee for the use thereof,
although he know not how many cubits high it is, or how wide it spreads,
than he that can measure it, and count all its boughs, and neither owns it,
nor knows or loves its Creator: so a believer, whose all this world of wealth
is, and who having nothing, yet possesseth all things, by cleaving unto
Thee, whom all things serve, though he know not even the circles of the
Great Bear, yet is it folly to doubt but he is in a better state than one who
can measure the heavens, and number the stars, and poise the elements, yet
neglecteth Thee who hast made all things in number, weight, and measure.
But yet who bade that Manichaeus write on these things also, skill in
which was no element of piety? For Thou hast said to man, Behold piety
and wisdom; of which he might be ignorant, though he had perfect
knowledge of these things; but these things, since, knowing not, he most
impudently dared to teach, he plainly could have no knowledge of piety.
For it is vanity to make profession of these worldly things even when
known; but confession to Thee is piety. Wherefore this wanderer to this end
spake much of these things, that convicted by those who had truly learned
them, it might be manifest what understanding he had in the other abstruser
things. For he would not have himself meanly thought of, but went about to
persuade men, "That the Holy Ghost, the Comforter and Enricher of Thy
faithful ones, was with plenary authority personally within him." When then
he was found out to have taught falsely of the heaven and stars, and of the
motions of the sun and moon (although these things pertain not to the
doctrine of religion), yet his sacrilegious presumption would become
evident enough, seeing he delivered things which not only he knew not, but
which were falsified, with so mad a vanity of pride, that he sought to
ascribe them to himself, as to a divine person.
For when I hear any Christian brother ignorant of these things, and
mistaken on them, I can patiently behold such a man holding his opinion;
nor do I see that any ignorance as to the position or character of the
corporeal creation can injure him, so long as he doth not believe any thing

unworthy of Thee, O Lord, the Creator of all. But it doth injure him, if he
imagine it to pertain to the form of the doctrine of piety, and will yet affirm
that too stiffly whereof he is ignorant. And yet is even such an infirmity, in
the infancy of faith, borne by our mother Charity, till the new-born may
grow up unto a perfect man, so as not to be carried about with every wind
of doctrine. But in him who in such wise presumed to be the teacher,
source, guide, chief of all whom he could so persuade, that whoso followed
him thought that he followed, not a mere man, but Thy Holy Spirit; who
would not judge that so great madness, when once convicted of having
taught any thing false, were to be detested and utterly rejected? But I had
not as yet clearly ascertained whether the vicissitudes of longer and shorter
days and nights, and of day and night itself, with the eclipses of the greater
lights, and whatever else of the kind I had read of in other books, might be
explained consistently with his sayings; so that, if they by any means might,
it should still remain a question to me whether it were so or no; but I might,
on account of his reputed sanctity, rest my credence upon his authority.
And for almost all those nine years, wherein with unsettled mind I had
been their disciple, I had longed but too intensely for the coming of this
Faustus. For the rest of the sect, whom by chance I had lighted upon, when
unable to solve my objections about these things, still held out to me the
coming of this Faustus, by conference with whom these and greater
difficulties, if I had them, were to be most readily and abundantly cleared.
When then he came, I found him a man of pleasing discourse, and who
could speak fluently and in better terms, yet still but the self-same things
which they were wont to say. But what availed the utmost neatness of the
cup-bearer to my thirst for a more precious draught? Mine ears were
already cloyed with the like, nor did they seem to me therefore better,
because better said; nor therefore true, because eloquent; nor the soul
therefore wise, because the face was comely, and the language graceful. But
they who held him out to me were no good judges of things; and therefore
to them he appeared understanding and wise, because in words pleasing. I
felt however that another sort of people were suspicious even of truth, and
refused to assent to it, if delivered in a smooth and copious discourse. But
Thou, O my God, hadst already taught me by wonderful and secret ways,
and therefore I believe that Thou taughtest me, because it is truth, nor is
there besides Thee any teacher of truth, where or whencesoever it may
shine upon us. Of Thyself therefore had I now learned, that neither ought

any thing to seem to be spoken truly, because eloquently; nor therefore
falsely, because the utterance of the lips is inharmonious; nor, again,
therefore true, because rudely delivered; nor therefore false, because the
language is rich; but that wisdom and folly are as wholesome and
unwholesome food; and adorned or unadorned phrases as courtly or country
vessels; either kind of meats may be served up in either kind of dishes.
That greediness then, wherewith I had of so long time expected that man,
was delighted verily with his action and feeling when disputing, and his
choice and readiness of words to clothe his ideas. I was then delighted, and,
with many others and more than they, did I praise and extol him. It troubled
me, however, that in the assembly of his auditors, I was not allowed to put
in and communicate those questions that troubled me, in familiar converse
with him. Which when I might, and with my friends began to engage his
ears at such times as it was not unbecoming for him to discuss with me, and
had brought forward such things as moved me; I found him first utterly
ignorant of liberal sciences, save grammar, and that but in an ordinary way.
But because he had read some of Tully's Orations, a very few books of
Seneca, some things of the poets, and such few volumes of his own sect as
were written in Latin and neatly, and was daily practised in speaking, he
acquired a certain eloquence, which proved the more pleasing and seductive
because under the guidance of a good wit, and with a kind of natural
gracefulness. Is it not thus, as I recall it, O Lord my God, Thou judge of my
conscience? before Thee is my heart, and my remembrance, Who didst at
that time direct me by the hidden mystery of Thy providence, and didst set
those shameful errors of mine before my face, that I might see and hate
them.
For after it was clear that he was ignorant of those arts in which I thought
he excelled, I began to despair of his opening and solving the difficulties
which perplexed me (of which indeed however ignorant, he might have
held the truths of piety, had he not been a Manichee). For their books are
fraught with prolix fables, of the heaven, and stars, sun, and moon, and I
now no longer thought him able satisfactorily to decide what I much
desired, whether, on comparison of these things with the calculations I had
elsewhere read, the account given in the books of Manichaeus were
preferable, or at least as good. Which when I proposed to be considered and
discussed, he, so far modestly, shrunk from the burthen. For he knew that he
knew not these things, and was not ashamed to confess it. For he was not

one of those talking persons, many of whom I had endured, who undertook
to teach me these things, and said nothing. But this man had a heart, though
not right towards Thee, yet neither altogether treacherous to himself. For he
was not altogether ignorant of his own ignorance, nor would he rashly be
entangled in a dispute, whence he could neither retreat nor extricate himself
fairly. Even for this I liked him the better. For fairer is the modesty of a
candid mind, than the knowledge of those things which I desired; and such I
found him, in all the more difficult and subtile questions.
My zeal for the writings of Manichaeus being thus blunted, and
despairing yet more of their other teachers, seeing that in divers things
which perplexed me, he, so renowned among them, had so turned out; I
began to engage with him in the study of that literature, on which he also
was much set (and which as rhetoric-reader I was at that time teaching
young students at Carthage), and to read with him, either what himself
desired to hear, or such as I judged fit for his genius. But all my efforts
whereby I had purposed to advance in that sect, upon knowledge of that
man, came utterly to an end; not that I detached myself from them
altogether, but as one finding nothing better, I had settled to be content
meanwhile with what I had in whatever way fallen upon, unless by chance
something more eligible should dawn upon me. Thus, that Faustus, to so
many a snare of death, had now neither willing nor witting it, begun to
loosen that wherein I was taken. For Thy hands, O my God, in the secret
purpose of Thy providence, did not forsake my soul; and out of my mother's
heart's blood, through her tears night and day poured out, was a sacrifice
offered for me unto Thee; and Thou didst deal with me by wondrous ways.
Thou didst it, O my God: for the steps of a man are ordered by the Lord,
and He shall dispose his way. Or how shall we obtain salvation, but from
Thy hand, re-making what it made?
Thou didst deal with me, that I should be persuaded to go to Rome, and
to teach there rather, what I was teaching at Carthage. And how I was
persuaded to this, I will not neglect to confess to Thee; because herein also
the deepest recesses of Thy wisdom, and Thy most present mercy to us,
must be considered and confessed. I did not wish therefore to go to Rome,
because higher gains and higher dignities were warranted me by my friends
who persuaded me to this (though even these things had at that time an
influence over my mind), but my chief and almost only reason was, that I
heard that young men studied there more peacefully, and were kept quiet

under a restraint of more regular discipline; so that they did not, at their
pleasures, petulantly rush into the school of one whose pupils they were
not, nor were even admitted without his permission. Whereas at Carthage
there reigns among the scholars a most disgraceful and unruly licence. They
burst in audaciously, and with gestures almost frantic, disturb all order
which any one hath established for the good of his scholars. Divers outrages
they commit, with a wonderful stolidity, punishable by law, did not custom
uphold them; that custom evincing them to be the more miserable, in that
they now do as lawful what by Thy eternal law shall never be lawful; and
they think they do it unpunished, whereas they are punished with the very
blindness whereby they do it, and suffer incomparably worse than what they
do. The manners then which, when a student, I would not make my own, I
was fain as a teacher to endure in others: and so I was well pleased to go
where, all that knew it, assured me that the like was not done. But Thou, my
refuge and my portion in the land of the living; that I might change my
earthly dwelling for the salvation of my soul, at Carthage didst goad me,
that I might thereby be torn from it; and at Rome didst proffer me
allurements, whereby I might be drawn thither, by men in love with a dying
life, the one doing frantic, the other promising vain, things; and, to correct
my steps, didst secretly use their and my own perverseness. For both they
who disturbed my quiet were blinded with a disgraceful frenzy, and they
who invited me elsewhere savoured of earth. And I, who here detested real
misery, was there seeking unreal happiness.
But why I went hence, and went thither, Thou knewest, O God, yet
showedst it neither to me, nor to my mother, who grievously bewailed my
journey, and followed me as far as the sea. But I deceived her, holding me
by force, that either she might keep me back or go with me, and I feigned
that I had a friend whom I could not leave, till he had a fair wind to sail.
And I lied to my mother, and such a mother, and escaped: for this also hast
Thou mercifully forgiven me, preserving me, thus full of execrable
defilements, from the waters of the sea, for the water of Thy Grace;
whereby when I was cleansed, the streams of my mother's eyes should be
dried, with which for me she daily watered the ground under her face. And
yet refusing to return without me, I scarcely persuaded her to stay that night
in a place hard by our ship, where was an Oratory in memory of the blessed
Cyprian. That night I privily departed, but she was not behind in weeping
and prayer. And what, O Lord, was she with so many tears asking of Thee,

but that Thou wouldest not suffer me to sail? But Thou, in the depth of Thy
counsels and hearing the main point of her desire, regardest not what she
then asked, that Thou mightest make me what she ever asked. The wind
blew and swelled our sails, and withdrew the shore from our sight; and she
on the morrow was there, frantic with sorrow, and with complaints and
groans filled Thine ears, Who didst then disregard them; whilst through my
desires, Thou wert hurrying me to end all desire, and the earthly part of her
affection to me was chastened by the allotted scourge of sorrows. For she
loved my being with her, as mothers do, but much more than many; and she
knew not how great joy Thou wert about to work for her out of my absence.
She knew not; therefore did she weep and wail, and by this agony there
appeared in her the inheritance of Eve, with sorrow seeking what in sorrow
she had brought forth. And yet, after accusing my treachery and
hardheartedness, she betook herself again to intercede to Thee for me, went
to her wonted place, and I to Rome.
And lo, there was I received by the scourge of bodily sickness, and I was
going down to hell, carrying all the sins which I had committed, both
against Thee, and myself, and others, many and grievous, over and above
that bond of original sin, whereby we all die in Adam. For Thou hadst not
forgiven me any of these things in Christ, nor had He abolished by His
Cross the enmity which by my sins I had incurred with Thee. For how
should He, by the crucifixion of a phantasm, which I believed Him to be?
So true, then, was the death of my soul, as that of His flesh seemed to me
false; and how true the death of His body, so false was the life of my soul,
which did not believe it. And now the fever heightening, I was parting and
departing for ever. For had I then parted hence, whither had I departed, but
into fire and torments, such as my misdeeds deserved in the truth of Thy
appointment? And this she knew not, yet in absence prayed for me. But
Thou, everywhere present, heardest her where she was, and, where I was,
hadst compassion upon me; that I should recover the health of my body,
though frenzied as yet in my sacrilegious heart. For I did not in all that
danger desire Thy baptism; and I was better as a boy, when I begged it of
my mother's piety, as I have before recited and confessed. But I had grown
up to my own shame, and I madly scoffed at the prescripts of Thy medicine,
who wouldest not suffer me, being such, to die a double death. With which
wound had my mother's heart been pierced, it could never be healed. For I
cannot express the affection she bore to me, and with how much more

vehement anguish she was now in labour of me in the spirit, than at her
childbearing in the flesh.
I see not then how she should have been healed, had such a death of mine
stricken through the bowels of her love. And where would have been those
her so strong and unceasing prayers, unintermitting to Thee alone? But
wouldest Thou, God of mercies, despise the contrite and humbled heart of
that chaste and sober widow, so frequent in almsdeeds, so full of duty and
service to Thy saints, no day intermitting the oblation at Thine altar, twice a
day, morning and evening, without any intermission, coming to Thy church,
not for idle tattlings and old wives' fables; but that she might hear Thee in
Thy discourses, and Thou her in her prayers. Couldest Thou despise and
reject from Thy aid the tears of such an one, wherewith she begged of Thee
not gold or silver, nor any mutable or passing good, but the salvation of her
son's soul? Thou, by whose gift she was such? Never, Lord. Yea, Thou wert
at hand, and wert hearing and doing, in that order wherein Thou hadst
determined before that it should be done. Far be it that Thou shouldest
deceive her in Thy visions and answers, some whereof I have, some I have
not mentioned, which she laid up in her faithful heart, and ever praying,
urged upon Thee, as Thine own handwriting. For Thou, because Thy mercy
endureth for ever, vouchsafest to those to whom Thou forgivest all of their
debts, to become also a debtor by Thy promises.
Thou recoveredst me then of that sickness, and healedst the son of Thy
handmaid, for the time in body, that he might live, for Thee to bestow upon
him a better and more abiding health. And even then, at Rome, I joined
myself to those deceiving and deceived "holy ones"; not with their disciples
only (of which number was he, in whose house I had fallen sick and
recovered); but also with those whom they call "The Elect." For I still
thought "that it was not we that sin, but that I know not what other nature
sinned in us"; and it delighted my pride, to be free from blame; and when I
had done any evil, not to confess I had done any, that Thou mightest heal
my soul because it had sinned against Thee: but I loved to excuse it, and to
accuse I know not what other thing, which was with me, but which I was
not. But in truth it was wholly I, and mine impiety had divided me against
myself: and that sin was the more incurable, whereby I did not judge myself
a sinner; and execrable iniquity it was, that I had rather have Thee, Thee, O
God Almighty, to be overcome in me to my destruction, than myself of
Thee to salvation. Not as yet then hadst Thou set a watch before my mouth,

and a door of safe keeping around my lips, that my heart might not turn
aside to wicked speeches, to make excuses of sins, with men that work
iniquity; and, therefore, was I still united with their Elect.
But now despairing to make proficiency in that false doctrine, even those
things (with which if I should find no better, I had resolved to rest
contented) I now held more laxly and carelessly. For there half arose a
thought in me that those philosophers, whom they call Academics, were
wiser than the rest, for that they held men ought to doubt everything, and
laid down that no truth can be comprehended by man: for so, not then
understanding even their meaning, I also was clearly convinced that they
thought, as they are commonly reported. Yet did I freely and openly
discourage that host of mine from that over-confidence which I perceived
him to have in those fables, which the books of Manichaeus are full of. Yet
I lived in more familiar friendship with them, than with others who were
not of this heresy. Nor did I maintain it with my ancient eagerness; still my
intimacy with that sect (Rome secretly harbouring many of them) made me
slower to seek any other way: especially since I despaired of finding the
truth, from which they had turned me aside, in Thy Church, O Lord of
heaven and earth, Creator of all things visible and invisible: and it seemed
to me very unseemly to believe Thee to have the shape of human flesh, and
to be bounded by the bodily lineaments of our members. And because,
when I wished to think on my God, I knew not what to think of, but a mass
of bodies (for what was not such did not seem to me to be anything), this
was the greatest, and almost only cause of my inevitable error.
For hence I believed Evil also to be some such kind of substance, and to
have its own foul and hideous bulk; whether gross, which they called earth,
or thin and subtile (like the body of the air), which they imagine to be some
malignant mind, creeping through that earth. And because a piety, such as it
was, constrained me to believe that the good God never created any evil
nature, I conceived two masses, contrary to one another, both unbounded,
but the evil narrower, the good more expansive. And from this pestilent
beginning, the other sacrilegious conceits followed on me. For when my
mind endeavoured to recur to the Catholic faith, I was driven back, since
that was not the Catholic faith which I thought to be so. And I seemed to
myself more reverential, if I believed of Thee, my God (to whom Thy
mercies confess out of my mouth), as unbounded, at least on other sides,
although on that one where the mass of evil was opposed to Thee, I was

constrained to confess Thee bounded; than if on all sides I should imagine
Thee to be bounded by the form of a human body. And it seemed to me
better to believe Thee to have created no evil (which to me ignorant seemed
not some only, but a bodily substance, because I could not conceive of mind
unless as a subtile body, and that diffused in definite spaces), than to believe
the nature of evil, such as I conceived it, could come from Thee. Yea, and
our Saviour Himself, Thy Only Begotten, I believed to have been reached
forth (as it were) for our salvation, out of the mass of Thy most lucid
substance, so as to believe nothing of Him, but what I could imagine in my
vanity. His Nature then, being such, I thought could not be born of the
Virgin Mary, without being mingled with the flesh: and how that which I
had so figured to myself could be mingled, and not defiled, I saw not. I
feared therefore to believe Him born in the flesh, lest I should be forced to
believe Him defiled by the flesh. Now will Thy spiritual ones mildly and
lovingly smile upon me, if they shall read these my confessions. Yet such
was I.
Furthermore, what the Manichees had criticised in Thy Scriptures, I
thought could not be defended; yet at times verily I had a wish to confer
upon these several points with some one very well skilled in those books,
and to make trial what he thought thereon; for the words of one Helpidius,
as he spoke and disputed face to face against the said Manichees, had begun
to stir me even at Carthage: in that he had produced things out of the
Scriptures, not easily withstood, the Manichees' answer whereto seemed to
me weak. And this answer they liked not to give publicly, but only to us in
private. It was, that the Scriptures of the New Testament had been corrupted
by I know not whom, who wished to engraff the law of the Jews upon the
Christian faith: yet themselves produced not any uncorrupted copies. But I,
conceiving of things corporeal only, was mainly held down, vehemently
oppressed and in a manner suffocated by those "masses"; panting under
which after the breath of Thy truth, I could not breathe it pure and
untainted.
I began then diligently to practise that for which I came to Rome, to teach
rhetoric; and first, to gather some to my house, to whom, and through
whom, I had begun to be known; when lo, I found other offences committed
in Rome, to which I was not exposed in Africa. True, those "subvertings" by
profligate young men were not here practised, as was told me: but on a
sudden, said they, to avoid paying their master's stipend, a number of youths

plot together, and remove to another;—breakers of faith, who for love of
money hold justice cheap. These also my heart hated, though not with a
perfect hatred: for perchance I hated them more because I was to suffer by
them, than because they did things utterly unlawful. Of a truth such are base
persons, and they go a whoring from Thee, loving these fleeting mockeries
of things temporal, and filthy lucre, which fouls the hand that grasps it;
hugging the fleeting world, and despising Thee, Who abidest, and recallest,
and forgivest the adulteress soul of man, when she returns to Thee. And
now I hate such depraved and crooked persons, though I love them if
corrigible, so as to prefer to money the learning which they acquire, and to
learning, Thee, O God, the truth and fulness of assured good, and most pure
peace. But then I rather for my own sake misliked them evil, than liked and
wished them good for Thine.
When therefore they of Milan had sent to Rome to the prefect of the city,
to furnish them with a rhetoric reader for their city, and sent him at the
public expense, I made application (through those very persons, intoxicated
with Manichaean vanities, to be freed wherefrom I was to go, neither of us
however knowing it) that Symmachus, then prefect of the city, would try
me by setting me some subject, and so send me. To Milan I came, to
Ambrose the Bishop, known to the whole world as among the best of men,
Thy devout servant; whose eloquent discourse did then plentifully dispense
unto Thy people the flour of Thy wheat, the gladness of Thy oil, and the
sober inebriation of Thy wine. To him was I unknowing led by Thee, that
by him I might knowingly be led to Thee. That man of God received me as
a father, and showed me an Episcopal kindness on my coming. Thenceforth
I began to love him, at first indeed not as a teacher of the truth (which I
utterly despaired of in Thy Church), but as a person kind towards myself.
And I listened diligently to him preaching to the people, not with that intent
I ought, but, as it were, trying his eloquence, whether it answered the fame
thereof, or flowed fuller or lower than was reported; and I hung on his
words attentively; but of the matter I was as a careless and scornful looker-
on; and I was delighted with the sweetness of his discourse, more recondite,
yet in manner less winning and harmonious, than that of Faustus. Of the
matter, however, there was no comparison; for the one was wandering amid
Manichaean delusions, the other teaching salvation most soundly. But
salvation is far from sinners, such as I then stood before him; and yet was I
drawing nearer by little and little, and unconsciously.

For though I took no pains to learn what he spake, but only to hear how
he spake (for that empty care alone was left me, despairing of a way, open
for man, to Thee), yet together with the words which I would choose, came
also into my mind the things which I would refuse; for I could not separate
them. And while I opened my heart to admit "how eloquently he spake,"
there also entered "how truly he spake"; but this by degrees. For first, these
things also had now begun to appear to me capable of defence; and the
Catholic faith, for which I had thought nothing could be said against the
Manichees' objections, I now thought might be maintained without
shamelessness; especially after I had heard one or two places of the Old
Testament resolved, and ofttimes "in a figure," which when I understood
literally, I was slain spiritually. Very many places then of those books
having been explained, I now blamed my despair, in believing that no
answer could be given to such as hated and scoffed at the Law and the
Prophets. Yet did I not therefore then see that the Catholic way was to be
held, because it also could find learned maintainers, who could at large and
with some show of reason answer objections; nor that what I held was
therefore to be condemned, because both sides could be maintained. For the
Catholic cause seemed to me in such sort not vanquished, as still not as yet
to be victorious.
Hereupon I earnestly bent my mind, to see if in any way I could by any
certain proof convict the Manichees of falsehood. Could I once have
conceived a spiritual substance, all their strongholds had been beaten down,
and cast utterly out of my mind; but I could not. Notwithstanding,
concerning the frame of this world, and the whole of nature, which the
senses of the flesh can reach to, as I more and more considered and
compared things, I judged the tenets of most of the philosophers to have
been much more probable. So then after the manner of the Academics (as
they are supposed) doubting of every thing, and wavering between all, I
settled so far, that the Manichees were to be abandoned; judging that, even
while doubting, I might not continue in that sect, to which I already
preferred some of the philosophers; to which philosophers notwithstanding,
for that they were without the saving Name of Christ, I utterly refused to
commit the cure of my sick soul. I determined therefore so long to be a
Catechumen in the Catholic Church, to which I had been commended by
my parents, till something certain should dawn upon me, whither I might
steer my course.

BOOK VI

O Thou, my hope from my youth, where wert Thou to me, and whither
wert Thou gone? Hadst not Thou created me, and separated me from the
beasts of the field, and fowls of the air? Thou hadst made me wiser, yet did
I walk in darkness, and in slippery places, and sought Thee abroad out of
myself, and found not the God of my heart; and had come into the depths of
the sea, and distrusted and despaired of ever finding truth. My mother had
now come to me, resolute through piety, following me over sea and land, in
all perils confiding in Thee. For in perils of the sea, she comforted the very
mariners (by whom passengers unacquainted with the deep, use rather to be
comforted when troubled), assuring them of a safe arrival, because Thou
hadst by a vision assured her thereof. She found me in grievous peril,
through despair of ever finding truth. But when I had discovered to her that
I was now no longer a Manichee, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she
was not overjoyed, as at something unexpected; although she was now
assured concerning that part of my misery, for which she bewailed me as
one dead, though to be reawakened by Thee, carrying me forth upon the
bier of her thoughts, that Thou mightest say to the son of the widow, Young
man, I say unto thee, Arise; and he should revive, and begin to speak, and
Thou shouldest deliver him to his mother. Her heart then was shaken with
no tumultuous exultation, when she heard that what she daily with tears
desired of Thee was already in so great part realised; in that, though I had
not yet attained the truth, I was rescued from falsehood; but, as being
assured, that Thou, Who hadst promised the whole, wouldest one day give
the rest, most calmly, and with a heart full of confidence, she replied to me,
"She believed in Christ, that before she departed this life, she should see me
a Catholic believer." Thus much to me. But to Thee, Fountain of mercies,
poured she forth more copious prayers and tears, that Thou wouldest hasten
Thy help, and enlighten my darkness; and she hastened the more eagerly to
the Church, and hung upon the lips of Ambrose, praying for the fountain of
that water, which springeth up unto life everlasting. But that man she loved

as an angel of God, because she knew that by him I had been brought for
the present to that doubtful state of faith I now was in, through which she
anticipated most confidently that I should pass from sickness unto health,
after the access, as it were, of a sharper fit, which physicians call "the
crisis."
When then my mother had once, as she was wont in Afric, brought to the
Churches built in memory of the Saints, certain cakes, and bread and wine,
and was forbidden by the door-keeper; so soon as she knew that the Bishop
had forbidden this, she so piously and obediently embraced his wishes, that
I myself wondered how readily she censured her own practice, rather than
discuss his prohibition. For wine-bibbing did not lay siege to her spirit, nor
did love of wine provoke her to hatred of the truth, as it doth too many
(both men and women), who revolt at a lesson of sobriety, as men well-
drunk at a draught mingled with water. But she, when she had brought her
basket with the accustomed festival-food, to be but tasted by herself, and
then given away, never joined therewith more than one small cup of wine,
diluted according to her own abstemious habits, which for courtesy she
would taste. And if there were many churches of the departed saints that
were to be honoured in that manner, she still carried round that same one
cup, to be used every where; and this, though not only made very watery,
but unpleasantly heated with carrying about, she would distribute to those
about her by small sips; for she sought there devotion, not pleasure. So
soon, then, as she found this custom to be forbidden by that famous
preacher and most pious prelate, even to those that would use it soberly, lest
so an occasion of excess might be given to the drunken; and for these, as it
were, anniversary funeral solemnities did much resemble the superstition of
the Gentiles, she most willingly forbare it: and for a basket filled with fruits
of the earth, she had learned to bring to the Churches of the martyrs a breast
filled with more purified petitions, and to give what she could to the poor;
that so the communication of the Lord's Body might be there rightly
celebrated, where, after the example of His Passion, the martyrs had been
sacrificed and crowned. But yet it seems to me, O Lord my God, and thus
thinks my heart of it in Thy sight, that perhaps she would not so readily
have yielded to the cutting off of this custom, had it been forbidden by
another, whom she loved not as Ambrose, whom, for my salvation, she
loved most entirely; and he her again, for her most religious conversation,
whereby in good works, so fervent in spirit, she was constant at church; so

that, when he saw me, he often burst forth into her praises; congratulating
me that I had such a mother; not knowing what a son she had in me, who
doubted of all these things, and imagined the way to life could not be found
out.
Nor did I yet groan in my prayers, that Thou wouldest help me; but my
spirit was wholly intent on learning, and restless to dispute. And Ambrose
himself, as the world counts happy, I esteemed a happy man, whom
personages so great held in such honour; only his celibacy seemed to me a
painful course. But what hope he bore within him, what struggles he had
against the temptations which beset his very excellencies, or what comfort
in adversities, and what sweet joys Thy Bread had for the hidden mouth of
his spirit, when chewing the cud thereof, I neither could conjecture, nor had
experienced. Nor did he know the tides of my feelings, or the abyss of my
danger. For I could not ask of him, what I would as I would, being shut out
both from his ear and speech by multitudes of busy people, whose
weaknesses he served. With whom when he was not taken up (which was
but a little time), he was either refreshing his body with the sustenance
absolutely necessary, or his mind with reading. But when he was reading,
his eye glided over the pages, and his heart searched out the sense, but his
voice and tongue were at rest. Ofttimes when we had come (for no man was
forbidden to enter, nor was it his wont that any who came should be
announced to him), we saw him thus reading to himself, and never
otherwise; and having long sat silent (for who durst intrude on one so
intent?) we were fain to depart, conjecturing that in the small interval which
he obtained, free from the din of others' business, for the recruiting of his
mind, he was loth to be taken off; and perchance he dreaded lest if the
author he read should deliver any thing obscurely, some attentive or
perplexed hearer should desire him to expound it, or to discuss some of the
harder questions; so that his time being thus spent, he could not turn over so
many volumes as he desired; although the preserving of his voice (which a
very little speaking would weaken) might be the truer reason for his reading
to himself. But with what intent soever he did it, certainly in such a man it
was good.
I however certainly had no opportunity of enquiring what I wished of that
so holy oracle of Thine, his breast, unless the thing might be answered
briefly. But those tides in me, to be poured out to him, required his full
leisure, and never found it. I heard him indeed every Lord's day, rightly

expounding the Word of truth among the people; and I was more and more
convinced that all the knots of those crafty calumnies, which those our
deceivers had knit against the Divine Books, could be unravelled. But when
I understood withal, that "man created by Thee, after Thine own image,"
was not so understood by Thy spiritual sons, whom of the Catholic Mother
Thou hast born again through grace, as though they believed and conceived
of Thee as bounded by human shape (although what a spiritual substance
should be I had not even a faint or shadowy notion); yet, with joy I blushed
at having so many years barked not against the Catholic faith, but against
the fictions of carnal imaginations. For so rash and impious had I been, that
what I ought by enquiring to have learned, I had pronounced on,
condemning. For Thou, Most High, and most near; most secret, and most
present; Who hast not limbs some larger, some smaller, but art wholly every
where, and no where in space, art not of such corporeal shape, yet hast
Thou made man after Thine own image; and behold, from head to foot is he
contained in space.
Ignorant then how this Thy image should subsist, I should have knocked
and proposed the doubt, how it was to be believed, not insultingly opposed
it, as if believed. Doubt, then, what to hold for certain, the more sharply
gnawed my heart, the more ashamed I was, that so long deluded and
deceived by the promise of certainties, I had with childish error and
vehemence, prated of so many uncertainties. For that they were falsehoods
became clear to me later. However I was certain that they were uncertain,
and that I had formerly accounted them certain, when with a blind
contentiousness, I accused Thy Catholic Church, whom I now discovered,
not indeed as yet to teach truly, but at least not to teach that for which I had
grievously censured her. So I was confounded, and converted: and I joyed,
O my God, that the One Only Church, the body of Thine Only Son (wherein
the name of Christ had been put upon me as an infant), had no taste for
infantine conceits; nor in her sound doctrine maintained any tenet which
should confine Thee, the Creator of all, in space, however great and large,
yet bounded every where by the limits of a human form.
I joyed also that the old Scriptures of the law and the Prophets were laid
before me, not now to be perused with that eye to which before they seemed
absurd, when I reviled Thy holy ones for so thinking, whereas indeed they
thought not so: and with joy I heard Ambrose in his sermons to the people,
oftentimes most diligently recommend this text for a rule, The letter killeth,

but the Spirit giveth life; whilst he drew aside the mystic veil, laying open
spiritually what, according to the letter, seemed to teach something
unsound; teaching herein nothing that offended me, though he taught what I
knew not as yet, whether it were true. For I kept my heart from assenting to
any thing, fearing to fall headlong; but by hanging in suspense I was the
worse killed. For I wished to be as assured of the things I saw not, as I was
that seven and three are ten. For I was not so mad as to think that even this
could not be comprehended; but I desired to have other things as clear as
this, whether things corporeal, which were not present to my senses, or
spiritual, whereof I knew not how to conceive, except corporeally. And by
believing might I have been cured, that so the eyesight of my soul being
cleared, might in some way be directed to Thy truth, which abideth always,
and in no part faileth. But as it happens that one who has tried a bad
physician, fears to trust himself with a good one, so was it with the health of
my soul, which could not be healed but by believing, and lest it should
believe falsehoods, refused to be cured; resisting Thy hands, Who hast
prepared the medicines of faith, and hast applied them to the diseases of the
whole world, and given unto them so great authority.
Being led, however, from this to prefer the Catholic doctrine, I felt that
her proceeding was more unassuming and honest, in that she required to be
believed things not demonstrated (whether it was that they could in
themselves be demonstrated but not to certain persons, or could not at all
be), whereas among the Manichees our credulity was mocked by a promise
of certain knowledge, and then so many most fabulous and absurd things
were imposed to be believed, because they could not be demonstrated. Then
Thou, O Lord, little by little with most tender and most merciful hand,
touching and composing my heart, didst persuade me—considering what
innumerable things I believed, which I saw not, nor was present while they
were done, as so many things in secular history, so many reports of places
and of cities, which I had not seen; so many of friends, so many of
physicians, so many continually of other men, which unless we should
believe, we should do nothing at all in this life; lastly, with how unshaken
an assurance I believed of what parents I was born, which I could not know,
had I not believed upon hearsay—considering all this, Thou didst persuade
me, that not they who believed Thy Books (which Thou hast established in
so great authority among almost all nations), but they who believed them
not, were to be blamed; and that they were not to be heard, who should say

to me, "How knowest thou those Scriptures to have been imparted unto
mankind by the Spirit of the one true and most true God?" For this very
thing was of all most to be believed, since no contentiousness of
blasphemous questionings, of all that multitude which I had read in the self-
contradicting philosophers, could wring this belief from me, "That Thou
art" whatsoever Thou wert (what I knew not), and "That the government of
human things belongs to Thee."
This I believed, sometimes more strongly, more weakly otherwhiles; yet I
ever believed both that Thou wert, and hadst a care of us; though I was
ignorant, both what was to be thought of Thy substance, and what way led
or led back to Thee. Since then we were too weak by abstract reasonings to
find out truth: and for this very cause needed the authority of Holy Writ; I
had now begun to believe that Thou wouldest never have given such
excellency of authority to that Writ in all lands, hadst Thou not willed
thereby to be believed in, thereby sought. For now what things, sounding
strangely in the Scripture, were wont to offend me, having heard divers of
them expounded satisfactorily, I referred to the depth of the mysteries, and
its authority appeared to me the more venerable, and more worthy of
religious credence, in that, while it lay open to all to read, it reserved the
majesty of its mysteries within its profounder meaning, stooping to all in
the great plainness of its words and lowliness of its style, yet calling forth
the intensest application of such as are not light of heart; that so it might
receive all in its open bosom, and through narrow passages waft over
towards Thee some few, yet many more than if it stood not aloft on such a
height of authority, nor drew multitudes within its bosom by its holy
lowliness. These things I thought on, and Thou wert with me; I sighed, and
Thou heardest me; I wavered, and Thou didst guide me; I wandered through
the broad way of the world, and Thou didst not forsake me.
I panted after honours, gains, marriage; and thou deridedst me. In these
desires I underwent most bitter crosses, Thou being the more gracious, the
less Thou sufferedst aught to grow sweet to me, which was not Thou.
Behold my heart, O Lord, who wouldest I should remember all this, and
confess to Thee. Let my soul cleave unto Thee, now that Thou hast freed it
from that fast-holding birdlime of death. How wretched was it! and Thou
didst irritate the feeling of its wound, that forsaking all else, it might be
converted unto Thee, who art above all, and without whom all things would
be nothing; be converted, and be healed. How miserable was I then, and

how didst Thou deal with me, to make me feel my misery on that day, when
I was preparing to recite a panegyric of the Emperor, wherein I was to utter
many a lie, and lying, was to be applauded by those who knew I lied, and
my heart was panting with these anxieties, and boiling with the feverishness
of consuming thoughts. For, passing through one of the streets of Milan, I
observed a poor beggar, then, I suppose, with a full belly, joking and
joyous: and I sighed, and spoke to the friends around me, of the many
sorrows of our frenzies; for that by all such efforts of ours, as those wherein
I then toiled dragging along, under the goading of desire, the burthen of my
own wretchedness, and, by dragging, augmenting it, we yet looked to arrive
only at that very joyousness whither that beggar-man had arrived before us,
who should never perchance attain it. For what he had obtained by means of
a few begged pence, the same was I plotting for by many a toilsome turning
and winding; the joy of a temporary felicity. For he verily had not the true
joy; but yet I with those my ambitious designs was seeking one much less
true. And certainly he was joyous, I anxious; he void of care, I full of fears.
But should any ask me, had I rather be merry or fearful? I would answer
merry. Again, if he asked had I rather be such as he was, or what I then
was? I should choose to be myself, though worn with cares and fears; but
out of wrong judgment; for, was it the truth? For I ought not to prefer
myself to him, because more learned than he, seeing I had no joy therein,
but sought to please men by it; and that not to instruct, but simply to please.
Wherefore also Thou didst break my bones with the staff of Thy correction.
Away with those then from my soul who say to her, "It makes a
difference whence a man's joy is. That beggar-man joyed in drunkenness;
Thou desiredst to joy in glory." What glory, Lord? That which is not in
Thee. For even as his was no true joy, so was that no true glory: and it
overthrew my soul more. He that very night should digest his drunkenness;
but I had slept and risen again with mine, and was to sleep again, and again
to rise with it, how many days, Thou, God, knowest. But "it doth make a
difference whence a man's joy is." I know it, and the joy of a faithful hope
lieth incomparably beyond such vanity. Yea, and so was he then beyond me:
for he verily was the happier; not only for that he was thoroughly drenched
in mirth, I disembowelled with cares: but he, by fair wishes, had gotten
wine; I, by lying, was seeking for empty, swelling praise. Much to this
purpose said I then to my friends: and I often marked in them how it fared
with me; and I found it went ill with me, and grieved, and doubled that very

ill; and if any prosperity smiled on me, I was loth to catch at it, for almost
before I could grasp it, it flew away.
These things we, who were living as friends together, bemoaned together,
but chiefly and most familiarly did I speak thereof with Alypius and
Nebridius, of whom Alypius was born in the same town with me, of persons
of chief rank there, but younger than I. For he had studied under me, both
when I first lectured in our town, and afterwards at Carthage, and he loved
me much, because I seemed to him kind, and learned; and I him, for his
great towardliness to virtue, which was eminent enough in one of no greater
years. Yet the whirlpool of Carthaginian habits (amongst whom those idle
spectacles are hotly followed) had drawn him into the madness of the
Circus. But while he was miserably tossed therein, and I, professing
rhetoric there, had a public school, as yet he used not my teaching, by
reason of some unkindness risen betwixt his father and me. I had found then
how deadly he doted upon the Circus, and was deeply grieved that he
seemed likely, nay, or had thrown away so great promise: yet had I no
means of advising or with a sort of constraint reclaiming him, either by the
kindness of a friend, or the authority of a master. For I supposed that he
thought of me as did his father; but he was not such; laying aside then his
father's mind in that matter, he began to greet me, come sometimes into my
lecture room, hear a little, and be gone.
I however had forgotten to deal with him, that he should not, through a
blind and headlong desire of vain pastimes, undo so good a wit. But Thou,
O Lord, who guidest the course of all Thou hast created, hadst not forgotten
him, who was one day to be among Thy children, Priest and Dispenser of
Thy Sacrament; and that his amendment might plainly be attributed to
Thyself, Thou effectedst it through me, unknowingly. For as one day I sat in
my accustomed place, with my scholars before me, he entered, greeted me,
sat down, and applied his mind to what I then handled. I had by chance a
passage in hand, which while I was explaining, a likeness from the
Circensian races occurred to me, as likely to make what I would convey
pleasanter and plainer, seasoned with biting mockery of those whom that
madness had enthralled; God, Thou knowest that I then thought not of
curing Alypius of that infection. But he took it wholly to himself, and
thought that I said it simply for his sake. And whence another would have
taken occasion of offence with me, that right-minded youth took as a
ground of being offended at himself, and loving me more fervently. For

Thou hadst said it long ago, and put it into Thy book, Rebuke a wise man
and he will love Thee. But I had not rebuked him, but Thou, who employest
all, knowing or not knowing, in that order which Thyself knowest (and that
order is just), didst of my heart and tongue make burning coals, by which to
set on fire the hopeful mind, thus languishing, and so cure it. Let him be
silent in Thy praises, who considers not Thy mercies, which confess unto
Thee out of my inmost soul. For he upon that speech burst out of that pit so
deep, wherein he was wilfully plunged, and was blinded with its wretched
pastimes; and he shook his mind with a strong self-command; whereupon
all the filths of the Circensian pastimes flew off from him, nor came he
again thither. Upon this, he prevailed with his unwilling father that he might
be my scholar. He gave way, and gave in. And Alypius beginning to be my
hearer again, was involved in the same superstition with me, loving in the
Manichees that show of continency which he supposed true and unfeigned.
Whereas it was a senseless and seducing continency, ensnaring precious
souls, unable as yet to reach the depth of virtue, yet readily beguiled with
the surface of what was but a shadowy and counterfeit virtue.
He, not forsaking that secular course which his parents had charmed him
to pursue, had gone before me to Rome, to study law, and there he was
carried away incredibly with an incredible eagerness after the shows of
gladiators. For being utterly averse to and detesting spectacles, he was one
day by chance met by divers of his acquaintance and fellow-students
coming from dinner, and they with a familiar violence haled him,
vehemently refusing and resisting, into the Amphitheatre, during these cruel
and deadly shows, he thus protesting: "Though you hale my body to that
place, and there set me, can you force me also to turn my mind or my eyes
to those shows? I shall then be absent while present, and so shall overcome
both you and them." They, hearing this, led him on nevertheless, desirous
perchance to try that very thing, whether he could do as he said. When they
were come thither, and had taken their places as they could, the whole place
kindled with that savage pastime. But he, closing the passage of his eyes,
forbade his mind to range abroad after such evil; and would he had stopped
his ears also! For in the fight, when one fell, a mighty cry of the whole
people striking him strongly, overcome by curiosity, and as if prepared to
despise and be superior to it whatsoever it were, even when seen, he opened
his eyes, and was stricken with a deeper wound in his soul than the other,
whom he desired to behold, was in his body; and he fell more miserably

than he upon whose fall that mighty noise was raised, which entered
through his ears, and unlocked his eyes, to make way for the striking and
beating down of a soul, bold rather than resolute, and the weaker, in that it
had presumed on itself, which ought to have relied on Thee. For so soon as
he saw that blood, he therewith drunk down savageness; nor turned away,
but fixed his eye, drinking in frenzy, unawares, and was delighted with that
guilty fight, and intoxicated with the bloody pastime. Nor was he now the
man he came, but one of the throng he came unto, yea, a true associate of
theirs that brought him thither. Why say more? He beheld, shouted, kindled,
carried thence with him the madness which should goad him to return not
only with them who first drew him thither, but also before them, yea and to
draw in others. Yet thence didst Thou with a most strong and most merciful
hand pluck him, and taughtest him to have confidence not in himself, but in
Thee. But this was after.
But this was already being laid up in his memory to be a medicine
hereafter. So was that also, that when he was yet studying under me at
Carthage, and was thinking over at mid-day in the market-place what he
was to say by heart (as scholars use to practise), Thou sufferedst him to be
apprehended by the officers of the market-place for a thief. For no other
cause, I deem, didst Thou, our God, suffer it, but that he who was hereafter
to prove so great a man, should already begin to learn that in judging of
causes, man was not readily to be condemned by man out of a rash
credulity. For as he was walking up and down by himself before the
judgment-seat, with his note-book and pen, lo, a young man, a lawyer, the
real thief, privily bringing a hatchet, got in, unperceived by Alypius, as far
as the leaden gratings which fence in the silversmiths' shops, and began to
cut away the lead. But the noise of the hatchet being heard, the silversmiths
beneath began to make a stir, and sent to apprehend whomever they should
find. But he, hearing their voices, ran away, leaving his hatchet, fearing to
be taken with it. Alypius now, who had not seen him enter, was aware of his
going, and saw with what speed he made away. And being desirous to know
the matter, entered the place; where finding the hatchet, he was standing,
wondering and considering it, when behold, those that had been sent, find
him alone with the hatchet in his hand, the noise whereof had startled and
brought them thither. They seize him, hale him away, and gathering the
dwellers in the market-place together, boast of having taken a notorious
thief, and so he was being led away to be taken before the judge.

But thus far was Alypius to be instructed. For forthwith, O Lord, Thou
succouredst his innocency, whereof Thou alone wert witness. For as he was
being led either to prison or to punishment, a certain architect met them,
who had the chief charge of the public buildings. Glad they were to meet
him especially, by whom they were wont to be suspected of stealing the
goods lost out of the market-place, as though to show him at last by whom
these thefts were committed. He, however, had divers times seen Alypius at
a certain senator's house, to whom he often went to pay his respects; and
recognising him immediately, took him aside by the hand, and enquiring the
occasion of so great a calamity, heard the whole matter, and bade all
present, amid much uproar and threats, to go with him. So they came to the
house of the young man who had done the deed. There, before the door, was
a boy so young as to be likely, not apprehending any harm to his master, to
disclose the whole. For he had attended his master to the market-place.
Whom so soon as Alypius remembered, he told the architect: and he
showing the hatchet to the boy, asked him "Whose that was?" "Ours," quoth
he presently: and being further questioned, he discovered every thing. Thus
the crime being transferred to that house, and the multitude ashamed, which
had begun to insult over Alypius, he who was to be a dispenser of Thy
Word, and an examiner of many causes in Thy Church, went away better
experienced and instructed.
Him then I had found at Rome, and he clave to me by a most strong tie,
and went with me to Milan, both that he might not leave me, and might
practise something of the law he had studied, more to please his parents
than himself. There he had thrice sat as Assessor, with an uncorruptness
much wondered at by others, he wondering at others rather who could
prefer gold to honesty. His character was tried besides, not only with the
bait of covetousness, but with the goad of fear. At Rome he was Assessor to
the count of the Italian Treasury. There was at that time a very powerful
senator, to whose favours many stood indebted, many much feared. He
would needs, by his usual power, have a thing allowed him which by the
laws was unallowed. Alypius resisted it: a bribe was promised; with all his
heart he scorned it: threats were held out; he trampled upon them: all
wondering at so unwonted a spirit, which neither desired the friendship, nor
feared the enmity of one so great and so mightily renowned for innumerable
means of doing good or evil. And the very judge, whose councillor Alypius
was, although also unwilling it should be, yet did not openly refuse, but put

the matter off upon Alypius, alleging that he would not allow him to do it:
for in truth had the judge done it, Alypius would have decided otherwise.
With this one thing in the way of learning was he well-nigh seduced, that he
might have books copied for him at Praetorian prices, but consulting justice,
he altered his deliberation for the better; esteeming equity whereby he was
hindered more gainful than the power whereby he were allowed. These are
slight things, but he that is faithful in little, is faithful also in much. Nor can
that any how be void, which proceeded out of the mouth of Thy Truth: If ye
have not been faithful in the unrighteous Mammon, who will commit to
your trust true riches? And if ye have not been faithful in that which is
another man's, who shall give you that which is your own? He being such,
did at that time cleave to me, and with me wavered in purpose, what course
of life was to be taken.
Nebridius also, who having left his native country near Carthage, yea and
Carthage itself, where he had much lived, leaving his excellent family-
estate and house, and a mother behind, who was not to follow him, had
come to Milan, for no other reason but that with me he might live in a most
ardent search after truth and wisdom. Like me he sighed, like me he
wavered, an ardent searcher after true life, and a most acute examiner of the
most difficult questions. Thus were there the mouths of three indigent
persons, sighing out their wants one to another, and waiting upon Thee that
Thou mightest give them their meat in due season. And in all the bitterness
which by Thy mercy followed our worldly affairs, as we looked towards the
end, why we should suffer all this, darkness met us; and we turned away
groaning, and saying, How long shall these things be? This too we often
said; and so saying forsook them not, for as yet there dawned nothing
certain, which these forsaken, we might embrace.
And I, viewing and reviewing things, most wondered at the length of
time from that my nineteenth year, wherein I had begun to kindle with the
desire of wisdom, settling when I had found her, to abandon all the empty
hopes and lying frenzies of vain desires. And lo, I was now in my thirtieth
year, sticking in the same mire, greedy of enjoying things present, which
passed away and wasted my soul; while I said to myself, "Tomorrow I shall
find it; it will appear manifestly and I shall grasp it; lo, Faustus the
Manichee will come, and clear every thing! O you great men, ye
Academicians, it is true then, that no certainty can be attained for the
ordering of life! Nay, let us search the more diligently, and despair not. Lo,

things in the ecclesiastical books are not absurd to us now, which
sometimes seemed absurd, and may be otherwise taken, and in a good
sense. I will take my stand, where, as a child, my parents placed me, until
the clear truth be found out. But where shall it be sought or when? Ambrose
has no leisure; we have no leisure to read; where shall we find even the
books? Whence, or when procure them? from whom borrow them? Let set
times be appointed, and certain hours be ordered for the health of our soul.
Great hope has dawned; the Catholic Faith teaches not what we thought,
and vainly accused it of; her instructed members hold it profane to believe
God to be bounded by the figure of a human body: and do we doubt to
'knock,' that the rest 'may be opened'? The forenoons our scholars take up;
what do we during the rest? Why not this? But when then pay we court to
our great friends, whose favour we need? When compose what we may sell
to scholars? When refresh ourselves, unbending our minds from this
intenseness of care?
"Perish every thing, dismiss we these empty vanities, and betake
ourselves to the one search for truth! Life is vain, death uncertain; if it steals
upon us on a sudden, in what state shall we depart hence? and where shall
we learn what here we have neglected? and shall we not rather suffer the
punishment of this negligence? What, if death itself cut off and end all care
and feeling? Then must this be ascertained. But God forbid this! It is no
vain and empty thing, that the excellent dignity of the authority of the
Christian Faith hath overspread the whole world. Never would such and so
great things be by God wrought for us, if with the death of the body the life
of the soul came to an end. Wherefore delay then to abandon worldly hopes,
and give ourselves wholly to seek after God and the blessed life? But wait!
Even those things are pleasant; they have some, and no small sweetness. We
must not lightly abandon them, for it were a shame to return again to them.
See, it is no great matter now to obtain some station, and then what should
we more wish for? We have store of powerful friends; if nothing else offer,
and we be in much haste, at least a presidentship may be given us: and a
wife with some money, that she increase not our charges: and this shall be
the bound of desire. Many great men, and most worthy of imitation, have
given themselves to the study of wisdom in the state of marriage."
While I went over these things, and these winds shifted and drove my
heart this way and that, time passed on, but I delayed to turn to the Lord;
and from day to day deferred to live in Thee, and deferred not daily to die in

myself. Loving a happy life, I feared it in its own abode, and sought it, by
fleeing from it. I thought I should be too miserable, unless folded in female
arms; and of the medicine of Thy mercy to cure that infirmity I thought not,
not having tried it. As for continency, I supposed it to be in our own power
(though in myself I did not find that power), being so foolish as not to know
what is written, None can be continent unless Thou give it; and that Thou
wouldest give it, if with inward groanings I did knock at Thine ears, and
with a settled faith did cast my care on Thee.
Alypius indeed kept me from marrying; alleging that so could we by no
means with undistracted leisure live together in the love of wisdom, as we
had long desired. For himself was even then most pure in this point, so that
it was wonderful; and that the more, since in the outset of his youth he had
entered into that course, but had not stuck fast therein; rather had he felt
remorse and revolting at it, living thenceforth until now most continently.
But I opposed him with the examples of those who as married men had
cherished wisdom, and served God acceptably, and retained their friends,
and loved them faithfully. Of whose greatness of spirit I was far short; and
bound with the disease of the flesh, and its deadly sweetness, drew along
my chain, dreading to be loosed, and as if my wound had been fretted, put
back his good persuasions, as it were the hand of one that would unchain
me. Moreover, by me did the serpent speak unto Alypius himself, by my
tongue weaving and laying in his path pleasurable snares, wherein his
virtuous and free feet might be entangled.
For when he wondered that I, whom he esteemed not slightly, should
stick so fast in the birdlime of that pleasure, as to protest (so oft as we
discussed it) that I could never lead a single life; and urged in my defence
when I saw him wonder, that there was great difference between his
momentary and scarce-remembered knowledge of that life, which so he
might easily despise, and my continued acquaintance whereto if the
honourable name of marriage were added, he ought not to wonder why I
could not contemn that course; he began also to desire to be married; not as
overcome with desire of such pleasure, but out of curiosity. For he would
fain know, he said, what that should be, without which my life, to him so
pleasing, would to me seem not life but a punishment. For his mind, free
from that chain, was amazed at my thraldom; and through that amazement
was going on to a desire of trying it, thence to the trial itself, and thence
perhaps to sink into that bondage whereat he wondered, seeing he was

willing to make a covenant with death; and he that loves danger, shall fall
into it. For whatever honour there be in the office of well-ordering a
married life, and a family, moved us but slightly. But me for the most part
the habit of satisfying an insatiable appetite tormented, while it held me
captive; him, an admiring wonder was leading captive. So were we, until
Thou, O Most High, not forsaking our dust, commiserating us miserable,
didst come to our help, by wondrous and secret ways.
Continual effort was made to have me married. I wooed, I was promised,
chiefly through my mother's pains, that so once married, the health-giving
baptism might cleanse me, towards which she rejoiced that I was being
daily fitted, and observed that her prayers, and Thy promises, were being
fulfilled in my faith. At which time verily, both at my request and her own
longing, with strong cries of heart she daily begged of Thee, that Thou
wouldest by a vision discover unto her something concerning my future
marriage; Thou never wouldest. She saw indeed certain vain and fantastic
things, such as the energy of the human spirit, busied thereon, brought
together; and these she told me of, not with that confidence she was wont,
when Thou showedst her any thing, but slighting them. For she could, she
said, through a certain feeling, which in words she could not express,
discern betwixt Thy revelations, and the dreams of her own soul. Yet the
matter was pressed on, and a maiden asked in marriage, two years under the
fit age; and, as pleasing, was waited for.
And many of us friends conferring about, and detesting the turbulent
turmoils of human life, had debated and now almost resolved on living
apart from business and the bustle of men; and this was to be thus obtained;
we were to bring whatever we might severally procure, and make one
household of all; so that through the truth of our friendship nothing should
belong especially to any; but the whole thus derived from all, should as a
whole belong to each, and all to all. We thought there might be some often
persons in this society; some of whom were very rich, especially
Romanianus our townsman, from childhood a very familiar friend of mine,
whom the grievous perplexities of his affairs had brought up to court; who
was the most earnest for this project; and therein was his voice of great
weight, because his ample estate far exceeded any of the rest. We had
settled also that two annual officers, as it were, should provide all things
necessary, the rest being undisturbed. But when we began to consider
whether the wives, which some of us already had, others hoped to have,

would allow this, all that plan, which was being so well moulded, fell to
pieces in our hands, was utterly dashed and cast aside. Thence we betook us
to sighs, and groans, and our steps to follow the broad and beaten ways of
the world; for many thoughts were in our heart, but Thy counsel standeth
for ever. Out of which counsel Thou didst deride ours, and preparedst Thine
own; purposing to give us meat in due season, and to fill our souls with
blessing.
Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied, and my concubine being torn
from my side as a hindrance to my marriage, my heart which clave unto her
was torn and wounded and bleeding. And she returned to Afric, vowing
unto Thee never to know any other man, leaving with me my son by her.
But unhappy I, who could not imitate a very woman, impatient of delay,
inasmuch as not till after two years was I to obtain her I sought not being so
much a lover of marriage as a slave to lust, procured another, though no
wife, that so by the servitude of an enduring custom, the disease of my soul
might be kept up and carried on in its vigour, or even augmented, into the
dominion of marriage. Nor was that my wound cured, which had been made
by the cutting away of the former, but after inflammation and most acute
pain, it mortified, and my pains became less acute, but more desperate.
To Thee be praise, glory to Thee, Fountain of mercies. I was becoming
more miserable, and Thou nearer. Thy right hand was continually ready to
pluck me out of the mire, and to wash me thoroughly, and I knew it not; nor
did anything call me back from a yet deeper gulf of carnal pleasures, but the
fear of death, and of Thy judgment to come; which amid all my changes,
never departed from my breast. And in my disputes with my friends Alypius
and Nebridius of the nature of good and evil, I held that Epicurus had in my
mind won the palm, had I not believed that after death there remained a life
for the soul, and places of requital according to men's deserts, which
Epicurus would not believe. And I asked, "were we immortal, and to live in
perpetual bodily pleasure, without fear of losing it, why should we not be
happy, or what else should we seek?" not knowing that great misery was
involved in this very thing, that, being thus sunk and blinded, I could not
discern that light of excellence and beauty, to be embraced for its own sake,
which the eye of flesh cannot see, and is seen by the inner man. Nor did I,
unhappy, consider from what source it sprung, that even on these things,
foul as they were, I with pleasure discoursed with my friends, nor could I,
even according to the notions I then had of happiness, be happy without

friends, amid what abundance soever of carnal pleasures. And yet these
friends I loved for themselves only, and I felt that I was beloved of them
again for myself only.
O crooked paths! Woe to the audacious soul, which hoped, by forsaking
Thee, to gain some better thing! Turned it hath, and turned again, upon
back, sides, and belly, yet all was painful; and Thou alone rest. And behold,
Thou art at hand, and deliverest us from our wretched wanderings, and
placest us in Thy way, and dost comfort us, and say, "Run; I will carry you;
yea I will bring you through; there also will I carry you."

BOOK VII

Deceased was now that my evil and abominable youth, and I was passing
into early manhood; the more defiled by vain things as I grew in years, who
could not imagine any substance, but such as is wont to be seen with these
eyes. I thought not of Thee, O God, under the figure of a human body; since
I began to hear aught of wisdom, I always avoided this; and rejoiced to have
found the same in the faith of our spiritual mother, Thy Catholic Church.
But what else to conceive of Thee I knew not. And I, a man, and such a
man, sought to conceive of Thee the sovereign, only, true God; and I did in
my inmost soul believe that Thou wert incorruptible, and uninjurable, and
unchangeable; because though not knowing whence or how, yet I saw
plainly, and was sure, that that which may be corrupted must be inferior to
that which cannot; what could not be injured I preferred unhesitatingly to
what could receive injury; the unchangeable to things subject to change. My
heart passionately cried out against all my phantoms, and with this one
blow I sought to beat away from the eye of my mind all that unclean troop
which buzzed around it. And lo, being scarce put off, in the twinkling of an
eye they gathered again thick about me, flew against my face, and
beclouded it; so that though not under the form of the human body, yet was
I constrained to conceive of Thee (that incorruptible, uninjurable, and
unchangeable, which I preferred before the corruptible, and injurable, and
changeable) as being in space, whether infused into the world, or diffused
infinitely without it. Because whatsoever I conceived, deprived of this
space, seemed to me nothing, yea altogether nothing, not even a void, as if a
body were taken out of its place, and the place should remain empty of any
body at all, of earth and water, air and heaven, yet would it remain a void
place, as it were a spacious nothing.
I then being thus gross-hearted, nor clear even to myself, whatsoever was
not extended over certain spaces, nor diffused, nor condensed, nor swelled
out, or did not or could not receive some of these dimensions, I thought to
be altogether nothing. For over such forms as my eyes are wont to range,

did my heart then range: nor yet did I see that this same notion of the mind,
whereby I formed those very images, was not of this sort, and yet it could
not have formed them, had not itself been some great thing. So also did I
endeavour to conceive of Thee, Life of my life, as vast, through infinite
spaces on every side penetrating the whole mass of the universe, and
beyond it, every way, through unmeasurable boundless spaces; so that the
earth should have Thee, the heaven have Thee, all things have Thee, and
they be bounded in Thee, and Thou bounded nowhere. For that as the body
of this air which is above the earth, hindereth not the light of the sun from
passing through it, penetrating it, not by bursting or by cutting, but by
filling it wholly: so I thought the body not of heaven, air, and sea only, but
of the earth too, pervious to Thee, so that in all its parts, the greatest as the
smallest, it should admit Thy presence, by a secret inspiration, within and
without, directing all things which Thou hast created. So I guessed, only as
unable to conceive aught else, for it was false. For thus should a greater part
of the earth contain a greater portion of Thee, and a less, a lesser: and all
things should in such sort be full of Thee, that the body of an elephant
should contain more of Thee, than that of a sparrow, by how much larger it
is, and takes up more room; and thus shouldest Thou make the several
portions of Thyself present unto the several portions of the world, in
fragments, large to the large, petty to the petty. But such art not Thou. But
not as yet hadst Thou enlightened my darkness.
It was enough for me, Lord, to oppose to those deceived deceivers, and
dumb praters, since Thy word sounded not out of them;—that was enough
which long ago, while we were yet at Carthage, Nebridius used to
propound, at which all we that heard it were staggered: "That said nation of
darkness, which the Manichees are wont to set as an opposing mass over
against Thee, what could it have done unto Thee, hadst Thou refused to
fight with it? For, if they answered, 'it would have done Thee some hurt,'
then shouldest Thou be subject to injury and corruption: but it could do
Thee no hurt,' then was no reason brought for Thy fighting with it; and
fighting in such wise, as that a certain portion or member of Thee, or
offspring of Thy very Substance, should be mingled with opposed powers,
and natures not created by Thee, and be by them so far corrupted and
changed to the worse, as to be turned from happiness into misery, and need
assistance, whereby it might be extricated and purified; and that this
offspring of Thy Substance was the soul, which being enthralled, defiled,

corrupted, Thy Word, free, pure, and whole, might relieve; that Word itself
being still corruptible because it was of one and the same Substance. So
then, should they affirm Thee, whatsoever Thou art, that is, Thy Substance
whereby Thou art, to be incorruptible, then were all these sayings false and
execrable; but if corruptible, the very statement showed it to be false and
revolting." This argument then of Nebridius sufficed against those who
deserved wholly to be vomited out of the overcharged stomach; for they had
no escape, without horrible blasphemy of heart and tongue, thus thinking
and speaking of Thee.
But I also as yet, although I held and was firmly persuaded that Thou our
Lord the true God, who madest not only our souls, but our bodies, and not
only our souls and bodies, but all beings, and all things, wert undefilable
and unalterable, and in no degree mutable; yet understood I not, clearly and
without difficulty, the cause of evil. And yet whatever it were, I perceived it
was in such wise to be sought out, as should not constrain me to believe the
immutable God to be mutable, lest I should become that evil I was seeking
out. I sought it out then, thus far free from anxiety, certain of the untruth of
what these held, from whom I shrunk with my whole heart: for I saw, that
through enquiring the origin of evil, they were filled with evil, in that they
preferred to think that Thy substance did suffer ill than their own did
commit it.
And I strained to perceive what I now heard, that free-will was the cause
of our doing ill, and Thy just judgment of our suffering ill. But I was not
able clearly to discern it. So then endeavouring to draw my soul's vision out
of that deep pit, I was again plunged therein, and endeavouring often, I was
plunged back as often. But this raised me a little into Thy light, that I knew
as well that I had a will, as that I lived: when then I did will or nill any
thing, I was most sure that no other than myself did will and nill: and I all
but saw that there was the cause of my sin. But what I did against my will, I
saw that I suffered rather than did, and I judged not to be my fault, but my
punishment; whereby, however, holding Thee to be just, I speedily
confessed myself to be not unjustly punished. But again I said, Who made
me? Did not my God, Who is not only good, but goodness itself? Whence
then came I to will evil and nill good, so that I am thus justly punished?
who set this in me, and ingrafted into me this plant of bitterness, seeing I
was wholly formed by my most sweet God? If the devil were the author,
whence is that same devil? And if he also by his own perverse will, of a

good angel became a devil, whence, again, came in him that evil will
whereby he became a devil, seeing the whole nature of angels was made by
that most good Creator? By these thoughts I was again sunk down and
choked; yet not brought down to that hell of error (where no man confesseth
unto Thee), to think rather that Thou dost suffer ill, than that man doth it.
For I was in such wise striving to find out the rest, as one who had
already found that the incorruptible must needs be better than the
corruptible: and Thee therefore, whatsoever Thou wert, I confessed to be
incorruptible. For never soul was, nor shall be, able to conceive any thing
which may be better than Thou, who art the sovereign and the best good.
But since most truly and certainly, the incorruptible is preferable to the
corruptible (as I did now prefer it), then, wert Thou not incorruptible, I
could in thought have arrived at something better than my God. Where then
I saw the incorruptible to be preferable to the corruptible, there ought I to
seek for Thee, and there observe "wherein evil itself was"; that is, whence
corruption comes, by which Thy substance can by no means be impaired.
For corruption does no ways impair our God; by no will, by no necessity,
by no unlooked-for chance: because He is God, and what He wills is good,
and Himself is that good; but to be corrupted is not good. Nor art Thou
against Thy will constrained to any thing, since Thy will is not greater than
Thy power. But greater should it be, were Thyself greater than Thyself. For
the will and power of God is God Himself. And what can be unlooked-for
by Thee, Who knowest all things? Nor is there any nature in things, but
Thou knowest it. And what should we more say, "why that substance which
God is should not be corruptible," seeing if it were so, it should not be God?
And I sought "whence is evil," and sought in an evil way; and saw not the
evil in my very search. I set now before the sight of my spirit the whole
creation, whatsoever we can see therein (as sea, earth, air, stars, trees,
mortal creatures); yea, and whatever in it we do not see, as the firmament of
heaven, all angels moreover, and all the spiritual inhabitants thereof. But
these very beings, as though they were bodies, did my fancy dispose in
place, and I made one great mass of Thy creation, distinguished as to the
kinds of bodies; some, real bodies, some, what myself had feigned for
spirits. And this mass I made huge, not as it was (which I could not know),
but as I thought convenient, yet every way finite. But Thee, O Lord, I
imagined on every part environing and penetrating it, though every way
infinite: as if there were a sea, every where, and on every side, through

unmeasured space, one only boundless sea, and it contained within it some
sponge, huge, but bounded; that sponge must needs, in all its parts, be filled
from that unmeasurable sea: so conceived I Thy creation, itself finite, full of
Thee, the Infinite; and I said, Behold God, and behold what God hath
created; and God is good, yea, most mightily and incomparably better than
all these: but yet He, the Good, created them good; and see how He
environeth and fulfils them. Where is evil then, and whence, and how crept
it in hither? What is its root, and what its seed? Or hath it no being? Why
then fear we and avoid what is not? Or if we fear it idly, then is that very
fear evil, whereby the soul is thus idly goaded and racked. Yea, and so
much a greater evil, as we have nothing to fear, and yet do fear. Therefore
either is that evil which we fear, or else evil is, that we fear. Whence is it
then? seeing God, the Good, hath created all these things good. He indeed,
the greater and chiefest Good, hath created these lesser goods; still both
Creator and created, all are good. Whence is evil? Or, was there some evil
matter of which He made, and formed, and ordered it, yet left something in
it which He did not convert into good? Why so then? Had He no might to
turn and change the whole, so that no evil should remain in it, seeing He is
All-mighty? Lastly, why would He make any thing at all of it, and not
rather by the same All-mightiness cause it not to be at all? Or, could it then
be against His will? Or if it were from eternity, why suffered He it so to be
for infinite spaces of times past, and was pleased so long after to make
something out of it? Or if He were suddenly pleased now to effect
somewhat, this rather should the All-mighty have effected, that this evil
matter should not be, and He alone be, the whole, true, sovereign, and
infinite Good. Or if it was not good that He who was good should not also
frame and create something that were good, then, that evil matter being
taken away and brought to nothing, He might form good matter, whereof to
create all things. For He should not be All-mighty, if He might not create
something good without the aid of that matter which Himself had not
created. These thoughts I revolved in my miserable heart, overcharged with
most gnawing cares, lest I should die ere I had found the truth; yet was the
faith of Thy Christ, our Lord and Saviour, professed in the Church Catholic,
firmly fixed in my heart, in many points, indeed, as yet unformed, and
fluctuating from the rule of doctrine; yet did not my mind utterly leave it,
but rather daily took in more and more of it.

By this time also had I rejected the lying divinations and impious dotages
of the astrologers. Let Thine own mercies, out of my very inmost soul,
confess unto Thee for this also, O my God. For Thou, Thou altogether (for
who else calls us back from the death of all errors, save the Life which
cannot die, and the Wisdom which needing no light enlightens the minds
that need it, whereby the universe is directed, down to the whirling leaves
of trees?)—Thou madest provision for my obstinacy wherewith I struggled
against Vindicianus, an acute old man, and Nebridius, a young man of
admirable talents; the first vehemently affirming, and the latter often
(though with some doubtfulness) saying, "That there was no such art
whereby to foresee things to come, but that men's conjectures were a sort of
lottery, and that out of many things which they said should come to pass,
some actually did, unawares to them who spake it, who stumbled upon it,
through their oft speaking." Thou providedst then a friend for me, no
negligent consulter of the astrologers; nor yet well skilled in those arts, but
(as I said) a curious consulter with them, and yet knowing something,
which he said he had heard of his father, which how far it went to
overthrow the estimation of that art, he knew not. This man then, Firminus
by name, having had a liberal education, and well taught in Rhetoric,
consulted me, as one very dear to him, what, according to his so-called
constellations, I thought on certain affairs of his, wherein his worldly hopes
had risen, and I, who had herein now begun to incline towards Nebridius'
opinion, did not altogether refuse to conjecture, and tell him what came into
my unresolved mind; but added, that I was now almost persuaded that these
were but empty and ridiculous follies. Thereupon he told me that his father
had been very curious in such books, and had a friend as earnest in them as
himself, who with joint study and conference fanned the flame of their
affections to these toys, so that they would observe the moments whereat
the very dumb animals, which bred about their houses, gave birth, and then
observed the relative position of the heavens, thereby to make fresh
experiments in this so-called art. He said then that he had heard of his
father, that what time his mother was about to give birth to him, Firminus, a
woman-servant of that friend of his father's was also with child, which
could not escape her master, who took care with most exact diligence to
know the births of his very puppies. And so it was that (the one for his wife,
and the other for his servant, with the most careful observation, reckoning
days, hours, nay, the lesser divisions of the hours) both were delivered at

the same instant; so that both were constrained to allow the same
constellations, even to the minutest points, the one for his son, the other for
his new-born slave. For so soon as the women began to be in labour, they
each gave notice to the other what was fallen out in their houses, and had
messengers ready to send to one another so soon as they had notice of the
actual birth, of which they had easily provided, each in his own province, to
give instant intelligence. Thus then the messengers of the respective parties
met, he averred, at such an equal distance from either house that neither of
them could make out any difference in the position of the stars, or any other
minutest points; and yet Firminus, born in a high estate in his parents'
house, ran his course through the gilded paths of life, was increased in
riches, raised to honours; whereas that slave continued to serve his masters,
without any relaxation of his yoke, as Firminus, who knew him, told me.
Upon hearing and believing these things, told by one of such credibility,
all that my resistance gave way; and first I endeavoured to reclaim Firminus
himself from that curiosity, by telling him that upon inspecting his
constellations, I ought if I were to predict truly, to have seen in them parents
eminent among their neighbours, a noble family in its own city, high birth,
good education, liberal learning. But if that servant had consulted me upon
the same constellations, since they were his also, I ought again (to tell him
too truly) to see in them a lineage the most abject, a slavish condition, and
every thing else utterly at variance with the former. Whence then, if I spake
the truth, I should, from the same constellations, speak diversely, or if I
spake the same, speak falsely: thence it followed most certainly that
whatever, upon consideration of the constellations, was spoken truly, was
spoken not out of art, but chance; and whatever spoken falsely, was not out
of ignorance in the art, but the failure of the chance.
An opening thus made, ruminating with myself on the like things, that no
one of those dotards (who lived by such a trade, and whom I longed to
attack, and with derision to confute) might urge against me that Firminus
had informed me falsely, or his father him; I bent my thoughts on those that
are born twins, who for the most part come out of the womb so near one to
other, that the small interval (how much force soever in the nature of things
folk may pretend it to have) cannot be noted by human observation, or be at
all expressed in those figures which the astrologer is to inspect, that he may
pronounce truly. Yet they cannot be true: for looking into the same figures,
he must have predicted the same of Esau and Jacob, whereas the same

happened not to them. Therefore he must speak falsely; or if truly, then,
looking into the same figures, he must not give the same answer. Not by art,
then, but by chance, would he speak truly. For Thou, O Lord, most
righteous Ruler of the Universe, while consulters and consulted know it not,
dost by Thy hidden inspiration effect that the consulter should hear what,
according to the hidden deservings of souls, he ought to hear, out of the
unsearchable depth of Thy just judgment, to Whom let no man say, What is
this? Why that? Let him not so say, for he is man.
Now then, O my Helper, hadst Thou loosed me from those fetters: and I
sought "whence is evil," and found no way. But Thou sufferedst me not by
any fluctuations of thought to be carried away from the Faith whereby I
believed Thee both to be, and Thy substance to be unchangeable, and that
Thou hast a care of, and wouldest judge men, and that in Christ, Thy Son,
Our Lord, and the holy Scriptures, which the authority of Thy Catholic
Church pressed upon me, Thou hadst set the way of man's salvation, to that
life which is to be after this death. These things being safe and immovably
settled in my mind, I sought anxiously "whence was evil?" What were the
pangs of my teeming heart, what groans, O my God! yet even there were
Thine ears open, and I knew it not; and when in silence I vehemently
sought, those silent contritions of my soul were strong cries unto Thy
mercy. Thou knewest what I suffered, and no man. For, what was that
which was thence through my tongue distilled into the ears of my most
familiar friends? Did the whole tumult of my soul, for which neither time
nor utterance sufficed, reach them? Yet went up the whole to Thy hearing,
all which I roared out from the groanings of my heart; and my desire was
before Thee, and the light of mine eyes was not with me: for that was
within, I without: nor was that confined to place, but I was intent on things
contained in place, but there found I no resting-place, nor did they so
receive me, that I could say, "It is enough," "it is well": nor did they yet
suffer me to turn back, where it might be well enough with me. For to these
things was I superior, but inferior to Thee; and Thou art my true joy when
subjected to Thee, and Thou hadst subjected to me what Thou createdst
below me. And this was the true temperament, and middle region of my
safety, to remain in Thy Image, and by serving Thee, rule the body. But
when I rose proudly against Thee, and ran against the Lord with my neck,
with the thick bosses of my buckler, even these inferior things were set
above me, and pressed me down, and no where was there respite or space of

breathing. They met my sight on all sides by heaps and troops, and in
thought the images thereof presented themselves unsought, as I would
return to Thee, as if they would say unto me, "Whither goest thou,
unworthy and defiled?" And these things had grown out of my wound; for
Thou "humbledst the proud like one that is wounded," and through my own
swelling was I separated from Thee; yea, my pride-swollen face closed up
mine eyes.
But Thou, Lord, abidest for ever, yet not for ever art Thou angry with us;
because Thou pitiest our dust and ashes, and it was pleasing in Thy sight to
reform my deformities; and by inward goads didst Thou rouse me, that I
should be ill at ease, until Thou wert manifested to my inward sight. Thus,
by the secret hand of Thy medicining was my swelling abated, and the
troubled and bedimmed eyesight of my mind, by the smarting anointings of
healthful sorrows, was from day to day healed.
And Thou, willing first to show me how Thou resistest the proud, but
givest grace unto the humble, and by how great an act of Thy mercy Thou
hadst traced out to men the way of humility, in that Thy Word was made
flesh, and dwelt among men:—Thou procuredst for me, by means of one
puffed up with most unnatural pride, certain books of the Platonists,
translated from Greek into Latin. And therein I read, not indeed in the very
words, but to the very same purpose, enforced by many and divers reasons,
that In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God: the Same was in the beginning with God: all things were
made by Him, and without Him was nothing made: that which was made by
Him is life, and the life was the light of men, and the light shineth in the
darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. And that the soul of man,
though it bears witness to the light, yet itself is not that light; but the Word
of God, being God, is that true light that lighteth every man that cometh
into the world. And that He was in the world, and the world was made by
Him, and the world knew Him not. But, that He came unto His own, and
His own received Him not; but as many as received Him, to them gave He
power to become the sons of God, as many as believed in His name; this I
read not there.
Again I read there, that God the Word was born not of flesh nor of blood,
nor of the will of man, nor of the will of the flesh, but of God. But that the
Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, I read not there. For I traced in

those books that it was many and divers ways said, that the Son was in the
form of the Father, and thought it not robbery to be equal with God, for that
naturally He was the Same Substance. But that He emptied Himself, taking
the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men, and found in
fashion as a man, humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death, and
that the death of the cross: wherefore God exalted Him from the dead, and
gave Him a name above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee
should how, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the
earth; and that every tongue should confess that the Lord Jesus Christ is in
the glory of God the Father; those books have not. For that before all times
and above all times Thy Only-Begotten Son remaineth unchangeable, co-
eternal with Thee, and that of His fulness souls receive, that they may be
blessed; and that by participation of wisdom abiding in them, they are
renewed, so as to be wise, is there. But that in due time He died for the
ungodly; and that Thou sparedst not Thine Only Son, but deliveredst Him
for us all, is not there. For Thou hiddest these things from the wise, and
revealedst them to babes; that they that labour and are heavy laden might
come unto Him, and He refresh them, because He is meek and lowly in
heart; and the meek He directeth in judgment, and the gentle He teacheth
His ways, beholding our lowliness and trouble, and forgiving all our sins.
But such as are lifted up in the lofty walk of some would-be sublimer
learning, hear not Him, saying, Learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly in
heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls. Although they knew God, yet they
glorify Him not as God, nor are thankful, but wax vain in their thoughts;
and their foolish heart is darkened; professing that they were wise, they
became fools.
And therefore did I read there also, that they had changed the glory of
Thy incorruptible nature into idols and divers shapes, into the likeness of
the image of corruptible man, and birds, and beasts, and creeping things;
namely, into that Egyptian food for which Esau lost his birthright, for that
Thy first-born people worshipped the head of a four-footed beast instead of
Thee; turning in heart back towards Egypt; and bowing Thy image, their
own soul, before the image of a calf that eateth hay. These things found I
here, but I fed not on them. For it pleased Thee, O Lord, to take away the
reproach of diminution from Jacob, that the elder should serve the younger:
and Thou calledst the Gentiles into Thine inheritance. And I had come to
Thee from among the Gentiles; and I set my mind upon the gold which

Thou willedst Thy people to take from Egypt, seeing Thine it was,
wheresoever it were. And to the Athenians Thou saidst by Thy Apostle, that
in Thee we live, move, and have our being, as one of their own poets had
said. And verily these books came from thence. But I set not my mind on
the idols of Egypt, whom they served with Thy gold, who changed the truth
of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the
Creator.
And being thence admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my
inward self, Thou being my Guide: and able I was, for Thou wert become
my Helper. And I entered and beheld with the eye of my soul (such as it
was), above the same eye of my soul, above my mind, the Light
Unchangeable. Not this ordinary light, which all flesh may look upon, nor
as it were a greater of the same kind, as though the brightness of this should
be manifold brighter, and with its greatness take up all space. Not such was
this light, but other, yea, far other from these. Nor was it above my soul, as
oil is above water, nor yet as heaven above earth: but above to my soul,
because It made me; and I below It, because I was made by It. He that
knows the Truth, knows what that Light is; and he that knows It, knows
eternity. Love knoweth it. O Truth Who art Eternity! and Love Who art
Truth! and Eternity Who art Love! Thou art my God, to Thee do I sigh night
and day. Thee when I first knew, Thou liftedst me up, that I might see there
was what I might see, and that I was not yet such as to see. And Thou didst
beat back the weakness of my sight, streaming forth Thy beams of light
upon me most strongly, and I trembled with love and awe: and I perceived
myself to be far off from Thee, in the region of unlikeness, as if I heard this
Thy voice from on high: "I am the food of grown men, grow, and thou shalt
feed upon Me; nor shalt thou convert Me, like the food of thy flesh into
thee, but thou shalt be converted into Me." And I learned, that Thou for
iniquity chastenest man, and Thou madest my soul to consume away like a
spider. And I said, "Is Truth therefore nothing because it is not diffused
through space finite or infinite?" And Thou criedst to me from afar: "Yet
verily, I AM that I AM." And I heard, as the heart heareth, nor had I room to
doubt, and I should sooner doubt that I live than that Truth is not, which is
clearly seen, being understood by those things which are made.
And I beheld the other things below Thee, and I perceived that they
neither altogether are, nor altogether are not, for they are, since they are
from Thee, but are not, because they are not what Thou art. For that truly is

which remains unchangeably. It is good then for me to hold fast unto God;
for if I remain not in Him, I cannot in myself; but He remaining in Himself,
reneweth all things. And Thou art the Lord my God, since Thou standest not
in need of my goodness.
And it was manifested unto me, that those things be good which yet are
corrupted; which neither were they sovereignly good, nor unless they were
good could be corrupted: for if sovereignly good, they were incorruptible, if
not good at all, there were nothing in them to be corrupted. For corruption
injures, but unless it diminished goodness, it could not injure. Either then
corruption injures not, which cannot be; or which is most certain, all which
is corrupted is deprived of good. But if they be deprived of all good, they
shall cease to be. For if they shall be, and can now no longer be corrupted,
they shall be better than before, because they shall abide incorruptibly. And
what more monstrous than to affirm things to become better by losing all
their good? Therefore, if they shall be deprived of all good, they shall no
longer be. So long therefore as they are, they are good: therefore
whatsoever is, is good. That evil then which I sought, whence it is, is not
any substance: for were it a substance, it should be good. For either it
should be an incorruptible substance, and so a chief good: or a corruptible
substance; which unless it were good, could not be corrupted. I perceived
therefore, and it was manifested to me that Thou madest all things good, nor
is there any substance at all, which Thou madest not; and for that Thou
madest not all things equal, therefore are all things; because each is good,
and altogether very good, because our God made all things very good.
And to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil: yea, not only to Thee, but also to
Thy creation as a whole, because there is nothing without, which may break
in, and corrupt that order which Thou hast appointed it. But in the parts
thereof some things, because unharmonising with other some, are accounted
evil: whereas those very things harmonise with others, and are good; and in
themselves are good. And all these things which harmonise not together, do
yet with the inferior part, which we call Earth, having its own cloudy and
windy sky harmonising with it. Far be it then that I should say, "These
things should not be": for should I see nought but these, I should indeed
long for the better; but still must even for these alone praise Thee; for that
Thou art to be praised, do show from the earth, dragons, and all deeps, fire,
hail, snow, ice, and stormy wind, which fulfil Thy word; mountains, and all
hills, fruitful trees, and all cedars; beasts, and all cattle, creeping things, and

flying fowls; kings of the earth, and all people, princes, and all judges of the
earth; young men and maidens, old men and young, praise Thy Name. But
when, from heaven, these praise Thee, praise Thee, our God, in the heights
all Thy angels, all Thy hosts, sun and moon, all the stars and light, the
Heaven of heavens, and the waters that be above the heavens, praise Thy
Name; I did not now long for things better, because I conceived of all: and
with a sounder judgment I apprehended that the things above were better
than these below, but altogether better than those above by themselves.
There is no soundness in them, whom aught of Thy creation displeaseth:
as neither in me, when much which Thou hast made, displeased me. And
because my soul durst not be displeased at my God, it would fain not
account that Thine, which displeased it. Hence it had gone into the opinion
of two substances, and had no rest, but talked idly. And returning thence, it
had made to itself a God, through infinite measures of all space; and
thought it to be Thee, and placed it in its heart; and had again become the
temple of its own idol, to Thee abominable. But after Thou hadst soothed
my head, unknown to me, and closed mine eyes that they should not behold
vanity, I ceased somewhat of my former self, and my frenzy was lulled to
sleep; and I awoke in Thee, and saw Thee infinite, but in another way, and
this sight was not derived from the flesh.
And I looked back on other things; and I saw that they owed their being
to Thee; and were all bounded in Thee: but in a different way; not as being
in space; but because Thou containest all things in Thine hand in Thy Truth;
and all things are true so far as they nor is there any falsehood, unless when
that is thought to be, which is not. And I saw that all things did harmonise,
not with their places only, but with their seasons. And that Thou, who only
art Eternal, didst not begin to work after innumerable spaces of times spent;
for that all spaces of times, both which have passed, and which shall pass,
neither go nor come, but through Thee, working and abiding.
And I perceived and found it nothing strange, that bread which is
pleasant to a healthy palate is loathsome to one distempered: and to sore
eyes light is offensive, which to the sound is delightful. And Thy
righteousness displeaseth the wicked; much more the viper and reptiles,
which Thou hast created good, fitting in with the inferior portions of Thy
Creation, with which the very wicked also fit in; and that the more, by how
much they be unlike Thee; but with the superior creatures, by how much

they become more like to Thee. And I enquired what iniquity was, and
found it to be no substance, but the perversion of the will, turned aside from
Thee, O God, the Supreme, towards these lower things, and casting out its
bowels, and puffed up outwardly.
And I wondered that I now loved Thee, and no phantasm for Thee. And
yet did I not press on to enjoy my God; but was borne up to Thee by Thy
beauty, and soon borne down from Thee by mine own weight, sinking with
sorrow into these inferior things. This weight was carnal custom. Yet dwelt
there with me a remembrance of Thee; nor did I any way doubt that there
was One to whom I might cleave, but that I was not yet such as to cleave to
Thee: for that the body which is corrupted presseth down the soul, and the
earthly tabernacle weigheth down the mind that museth upon many things.
And most certain I was, that Thy invisible works from the creation of the
world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even
Thy eternal power and Godhead. For examining whence it was that I
admired the beauty of bodies celestial or terrestrial; and what aided me in
judging soundly on things mutable, and pronouncing, "This ought to be
thus, this not"; examining, I say, whence it was that I so judged, seeing I did
so judge, I had found the unchangeable and true Eternity of Truth above my
changeable mind. And thus by degrees I passed from bodies to the soul,
which through the bodily senses perceives; and thence to its inward faculty,
to which the bodily senses represent things external, whitherto reach the
faculties of beasts; and thence again to the reasoning faculty, to which what
is received from the senses of the body, is referred to be judged. Which
finding itself also to be in me a thing variable, raised itself up to its own
understanding, and drew away my thoughts from the power of habit,
withdrawing itself from those troops of contradictory phantasms; that so it
might find what that light was whereby it was bedewed, when, without all
doubting, it cried out, "That the unchangeable was to be preferred to the
changeable"; whence also it knew That Unchangeable, which, unless it had
in some way known, it had had no sure ground to prefer it to the
changeable. And thus with the flash of one trembling glance it arrived at
THAT WHICH IS. And then I saw Thy invisible things understood by the
things which are made. But I could not fix my gaze thereon; and my
infirmity being struck back, I was thrown again on my wonted habits,
carrying along with me only a loving memory thereof, and a longing for

what I had, as it were, perceived the odour of, but was not yet able to feed
on.
Then I sought a way of obtaining strength sufficient to enjoy Thee; and
found it not, until I embraced that Mediator betwixt God and men, the Man
Christ Jesus, who is over all, God blessed for evermore, calling unto me,
and saying, I am the way, the truth, and the life, and mingling that food
which I was unable to receive, with our flesh. For, the Word was made
flesh, that Thy wisdom, whereby Thou createdst all things, might provide
milk for our infant state. For I did not hold to my Lord Jesus Christ, I,
humbled, to the Humble; nor knew I yet whereto His infirmity would guide
us. For Thy Word, the Eternal Truth, far above the higher parts of Thy
Creation, raises up the subdued unto Itself: but in this lower world built for
Itself a lowly habitation of our clay, whereby to abase from themselves such
as would be subdued, and bring them over to Himself; allaying their
swelling, and fomenting their love; to the end they might go on no further in
self-confidence, but rather consent to become weak, seeing before their feet
the Divinity weak by taking our coats of skin; and wearied, might cast
themselves down upon It, and It rising, might lift them up.
But I thought otherwise; conceiving only of my Lord Christ as of a man
of excellent wisdom, whom no one could be equalled unto; especially, for
that being wonderfully born of a Virgin, He seemed, in conformity
therewith, through the Divine care for us, to have attained that great
eminence of authority, for an ensample of despising things temporal for the
obtaining of immortality. But what mystery there lay in "The Word was
made flesh," I could not even imagine. Only I had learnt out of what is
delivered to us in writing of Him that He did eat, and drink, sleep, walk,
rejoiced in spirit, was sorrowful, discoursed; that flesh did not cleave by
itself unto Thy Word, but with the human soul and mind. All know this who
know the unchangeableness of Thy Word, which I now knew, as far as I
could, nor did I at all doubt thereof. For, now to move the limbs of the body
by will, now not, now to be moved by some affection, now not, now to
deliver wise sayings through human signs, now to keep silence, belong to
soul and mind subject to variation. And should these things be falsely
written of Him, all the rest also would risk the charge, nor would there
remain in those books any saving faith for mankind. Since then they were
written truly, I acknowledged a perfect man to be in Christ; not the body of
a man only, nor, with the body, a sensitive soul without a rational, but very

man; whom, not only as being a form of Truth, but for a certain great
excellence of human nature and a more perfect participation of wisdom, I
judged to be preferred before others. But Alypius imagined the Catholics to
believe God to be so clothed with flesh, that besides God and flesh, there
was no soul at all in Christ, and did not think that a human mind was
ascribed to Him. And because he was well persuaded that the actions
recorded of Him could only be performed by a vital and a rational creature,
he moved the more slowly towards the Christian Faith. But understanding
afterwards that this was the error of the Apollinarian heretics, he joyed in
and was conformed to the Catholic Faith. But somewhat later, I confess, did
I learn how in that saying, The Word was made flesh, the Catholic truth is
distinguished from the falsehood of Photinus. For the rejection of heretics
makes the tenets of Thy Church and sound doctrine to stand out more
clearly. For there must also be heresies, that the approved may be made
manifest among the weak.
But having then read those books of the Platonists, and thence been
taught to search for incorporeal truth, I saw Thy invisible things, understood
by those things which are made; and though cast back, I perceived what that
was which through the darkness of my mind I was hindered from
contemplating, being assured "That Thou wert, and wert infinite, and yet
not diffused in space, finite or infinite; and that Thou truly art Who art the
same ever, in no part nor motion varying; and that all other things are from
Thee, on this most sure ground alone, that they are." Of these things I was
assured, yet too unsure to enjoy Thee. I prated as one well skilled; but had I
not sought Thy way in Christ our Saviour, I had proved to be, not skilled,
but killed. For now I had begun to wish to seem wise, being filled with
mine own punishment, yet I did not mourn, but rather scorn, puffed up with
knowledge. For where was that charity building upon the foundation of
humility, which is Christ Jesus? or when should these books teach me it?
Upon these, I believe, Thou therefore willedst that I should fall, before I
studied Thy Scriptures, that it might be imprinted on my memory how I was
affected by them; and that afterwards when my spirits were tamed through
Thy books, and my wounds touched by Thy healing fingers, I might discern
and distinguish between presumption and confession; between those who
saw whither they were to go, yet saw not the way, and the way that leadeth
not to behold only but to dwell in the beatific country. For had I first been
formed in Thy Holy Scriptures, and hadst Thou in the familiar use of them

grown sweet unto me, and had I then fallen upon those other volumes, they
might perhaps have withdrawn me from the solid ground of piety, or, had I
continued in that healthful frame which I had thence imbibed, I might have
thought that it might have been obtained by the study of those books alone.
Most eagerly then did I seize that venerable writing of Thy Spirit; and
chiefly the Apostle Paul. Whereupon those difficulties vanished away,
wherein he once seemed to me to contradict himself, and the text of his
discourse not to agree with the testimonies of the Law and the Prophets.
And the face of that pure word appeared to me one and the same; and I
learned to rejoice with trembling. So I began; and whatsoever truth I had
read in those other books, I found here amid the praise of Thy Grace; that
whoso sees, may not so glory as if he had not received, not only what he
sees, but also that he sees (for what hath he, which he hath not received?),
and that he may be not only admonished to behold Thee, who art ever the
same, but also healed, to hold Thee; and that he who cannot see afar off,
may yet walk on the way, whereby he may arrive, and behold, and hold
Thee. For, though a man be delighted with the law of God after the inner
man, what shall he do with that other law in his members which warreth
against the law of his mind, and bringeth him into captivity to the law of sin
which is in his members? For, Thou art righteous, O Lord, but we have
sinned and committed iniquity, and have done wickedly, and Thy hand is
grown heavy upon us, and we are justly delivered over unto that ancient
sinner, the king of death; because he persuaded our will to be like his will
whereby he abode not in Thy truth. What shall wretched man do? who shall
deliver him from the body of his death, but only Thy Grace, through Jesus
Christ our Lord, whom Thou hast begotten co-eternal, and formedst in the
beginning of Thy ways, in whom the prince of this world found nothing
worthy of death, yet killed he Him; and the handwriting, which was
contrary to us, was blotted out? This those writings contain not. Those
pages present not the image of this piety, the tears of confession, Thy
sacrifice, a troubled spirit, a broken and a contrite heart, the salvation of the
people, the Bridal City, the earnest of the Holy Ghost, the Cup of our
Redemption. No man sings there, Shall not my soul be submitted unto God?
for of Him cometh my salvation. For He is my God and my salvation, my
guardian, I shall no more be moved. No one there hears Him call, Come
unto Me, all ye that labour. They scorn to learn of Him, because He is meek
and lowly in heart; for these things hast Thou hid from the wise and

prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes. For it is one thing, from the
mountain's shaggy top to see the land of peace, and to find no way thither;
and in vain to essay through ways unpassable, opposed and beset by
fugitives and deserters, under their captain the lion and the dragon: and
another to keep on the way that leads thither, guarded by the host of the
heavenly General; where they spoil not who have deserted the heavenly
army; for they avoid it, as very torment. These things did wonderfully sink
into my bowels, when I read that least of Thy Apostles, and had meditated
upon Thy works, and trembled exceedingly.

BOOK VIII

O my God, let me, with thanksgiving, remember, and confess unto Thee
Thy mercies on me. Let my bones be bedewed with Thy love, and let them
say unto Thee, Who is like unto Thee, O Lord? Thou hast broken my bonds
in sunder, I will offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. And how
Thou hast broken them, I will declare; and all who worship Thee, when
they hear this, shall say, "Blessed be the Lord, in heaven and in earth, great
and wonderful is his name." Thy words had stuck fast in my heart, and I
was hedged round about on all sides by Thee. Of Thy eternal life I was now
certain, though I saw it in a figure and as through a glass. Yet I had ceased
to doubt that there was an incorruptible substance, whence was all other
substance; nor did I now desire to be more certain of Thee, but more
steadfast in Thee. But for my temporal life, all was wavering, and my heart
had to be purged from the old leaven. The Way, the Saviour Himself, well
pleased me, but as yet I shrunk from going through its straitness. And Thou
didst put into my mind, and it seemed good in my eyes, to go to
Simplicianus, who seemed to me a good servant of Thine; and Thy grace
shone in him. I had heard also that from his very youth he had lived most
devoted unto Thee. Now he was grown into years; and by reason of so great
age spent in such zealous following of Thy ways, he seemed to me likely to
have learned much experience; and so he had. Out of which store I wished
that he would tell me (setting before him my anxieties) which were the
fittest way for one in my case to walk in Thy paths.
For, I saw the church full; and one went this way, and another that way.
But I was displeased that I led a secular life; yea now that my desires no
longer inflamed me, as of old, with hopes of honour and profit, a very
grievous burden it was to undergo so heavy a bondage. For, in comparison
of Thy sweetness, and the beauty of Thy house which I loved, those things
delighted me no longer. But still I was enthralled with the love of woman;
nor did the Apostle forbid me to marry, although he advised me to
something better, chiefly wishing that all men were as himself was. But I

being weak, chose the more indulgent place; and because of this alone, was
tossed up and down in all beside, faint and wasted with withering cares,
because in other matters I was constrained against my will to conform
myself to a married life, to which I was given up and enthralled. I had heard
from the mouth of the Truth, that there were some eunuchs which had made
themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake: but, saith He, let him
who can receive it, receive it. Surely vain are all men who are ignorant of
God, and could not out of the good things which are seen, find out Him who
is good. But I was no longer in that vanity; I had surmounted it; and by the
common witness of all Thy creatures had found Thee our Creator, and Thy
Word, God with Thee, and together with Thee one God, by whom Thou
createdst all things. There is yet another kind of ungodly, who knowing
God, glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful. Into this also had I
fallen, but Thy right hand upheld me, and took me thence, and Thou
placedst me where I might recover. For Thou hast said unto man, Behold,
the fear of the Lord is wisdom, and, Desire not to seem wise; because they
who affirmed themselves to be wise, became fools. But I had now found the
goodly pearl, which, selling all that I had, I ought to have bought, and I
hesitated.
To Simplicianus then I went, the father of Ambrose (a Bishop now) in
receiving Thy grace, and whom Ambrose truly loved as a father. To him I
related the mazes of my wanderings. But when I mentioned that I had read
certain books of the Platonists, which Victorinus, sometime Rhetoric
Professor of Rome (who had died a Christian, as I had heard), had
translated into Latin, he testified his joy that I had not fallen upon the
writings of other philosophers, full of fallacies and deceits, after the
rudiments of this world, whereas the Platonists many ways led to the belief
in God and His Word. Then to exhort me to the humility of Christ, hidden
from the wise, and revealed to little ones, he spoke of Victorinus himself,
whom while at Rome he had most intimately known: and of him he related
what I will not conceal. For it contains great praise of Thy grace, to be
confessed unto Thee, how that aged man, most learned and skilled in the
liberal sciences, and who had read, and weighed so many works of the
philosophers; the instructor of so many noble Senators, who also, as a
monument of his excellent discharge of his office, had (which men of this
world esteem a high honour) both deserved and obtained a statue in the
Roman Forum; he, to that age a worshipper of idols, and a partaker of the

sacrilegious rites, to which almost all the nobility of Rome were given up,
and had inspired the people with the love of
Anubis, barking Deity, and all
The monster Gods of every kind, who fought
'Gainst Neptune, Venus, and Minerva:

whom Rome once conquered, now adored, all which the aged Victorinus
had with thundering eloquence so many years defended;—he now blushed
not to be the child of Thy Christ, and the new-born babe of Thy fountain;
submitting his neck to the yoke of humility, and subduing his forehead to
the reproach of the Cross.
O Lord, Lord, Which hast bowed the heavens and come down, touched
the mountains and they did smoke, by what means didst Thou convey
Thyself into that breast? He used to read (as Simplicianus said) the holy
Scripture, most studiously sought and searched into all the Christian
writings, and said to Simplicianus (not openly, but privately and as a
friend), "Understand that I am already a Christian." Whereto he answered,
"I will not believe it, nor will I rank you among Christians, unless I see you
in the Church of Christ." The other, in banter, replied, "Do walls then make
Christians?" And this he often said, that he was already a Christian; and
Simplicianus as often made the same answer, and the conceit of the "walls"
was by the other as often renewed. For he feared to offend his friends,
proud daemon-worshippers, from the height of whose Babylonian dignity,
as from cedars of Libanus, which the Lord had not yet broken down, he
supposed the weight of enmity would fall upon him. But after that by
reading and earnest thought he had gathered firmness, and feared to be
denied by Christ before the holy angels, should he now be afraid to confess
Him before men, and appeared to himself guilty of a heavy offence, in
being ashamed of the Sacraments of the humility of Thy Word, and not
being ashamed of the sacrilegious rites of those proud daemons, whose
pride he had imitated and their rites adopted, he became bold-faced against
vanity, and shame-faced towards the truth, and suddenly and unexpectedly
said to Simplicianus (as himself told me), "Go we to the Church; I wish to
be made a Christian." But he, not containing himself for joy, went with him.
And having been admitted to the first Sacrament and become a
Catechumen, not long after he further gave in his name, that he might be
regenerated by baptism, Rome wondering, the Church rejoicing. The proud

saw, and were wroth; they gnashed with their teeth, and melted away. But
the Lord God was the hope of Thy servant, and he regarded not vanities and
lying madness.
To conclude, when the hour was come for making profession of his faith
(which at Rome they, who are about to approach to Thy grace, deliver, from
an elevated place, in the sight of all the faithful, in a set form of words
committed to memory), the presbyters, he said, offered Victorinus (as was
done to such as seemed likely through bashfulness to be alarmed) to make
his profession more privately: but he chose rather to profess his salvation in
the presence of the holy multitude. "For it was not salvation that he taught
in rhetoric, and yet that he had publicly professed: how much less then
ought he, when pronouncing Thy word, to dread Thy meek flock, who,
when delivering his own words, had not feared a mad multitude!" When,
then, he went up to make his profession, all, as they knew him, whispered
his name one to another with the voice of congratulation. And who there
knew him not? and there ran a low murmur through all the mouths of the
rejoicing multitude, Victorinus! Victorinus! Sudden was the burst of rapture,
that they saw him; suddenly were they hushed that they might hear him. He
pronounced the true faith with an excellent boldness, and all wished to draw
him into their very heart; yea by their love and joy they drew him thither,
such were the hands wherewith they drew him.
Good God! what takes place in man, that he should more rejoice at the
salvation of a soul despaired of, and freed from greater peril, than if there
had always been hope of him, or the danger had been less? For so Thou
also, merciful Father, dost more rejoice over one penitent than over ninety-
nine just persons that need no repentance. And with much joyfulness do we
hear, so often as we hear with what joy the sheep which had strayed is
brought back upon the shepherd's shoulder, and the groat is restored to Thy
treasury, the neighbours rejoicing with the woman who found it; and the joy
of the solemn service of Thy house forceth to tears, when in Thy house it is
read of Thy younger son, that he was dead, and liveth again; had been lost,
and is found. For Thou rejoicest in us, and in Thy holy angels, holy through
holy charity. For Thou art ever the same; for all things which abide not the
same nor for ever, Thou for ever knowest in the same way.
What then takes place in the soul, when it is more delighted at finding or
recovering the things it loves, than if it had ever had them? yea, and other

things witness hereunto; and all things are full of witnesses, crying out, "So
is it." The conquering commander triumpheth; yet had he not conquered
unless he had fought; and the more peril there was in the battle, so much the
more joy is there in the triumph. The storm tosses the sailors, threatens
shipwreck; all wax pale at approaching death; sky and sea are calmed, and
they are exceeding joyed, as having been exceeding afraid. A friend is sick,
and his pulse threatens danger; all who long for his recovery are sick in
mind with him. He is restored, though as yet he walks not with his former
strength; yet there is such joy, as was not, when before he walked sound and
strong. Yea, the very pleasures of human life men acquire by difficulties,
not those only which fall upon us unlooked for, and against our wills, but
even by self-chosen, and pleasure-seeking trouble. Eating and drinking have
no pleasure, unless there precede the pinching of hunger and thirst. Men,
given to drink, eat certain salt meats, to procure a troublesome heat, which
the drink allaying, causes pleasure. It is also ordered that the affianced bride
should not at once be given, lest as a husband he should hold cheap whom,
as betrothed, he sighed not after.
This law holds in foul and accursed joy; this in permitted and lawful joy;
this in the very purest perfection of friendship; this, in him who was dead,
and lived again; had been lost and was found. Every where the greater joy is
ushered in by the greater pain. What means this, O Lord my God, whereas
Thou art everlastingly joy to Thyself, and some things around Thee
evermore rejoice in Thee? What means this, that this portion of things thus
ebbs and flows alternately displeased and reconciled? Is this their allotted
measure? Is this all Thou hast assigned to them, whereas from the highest
heavens to the lowest earth, from the beginning of the world to the end of
ages, from the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou
settest each in its place, and realisest each in their season, every thing good
after its kind? Woe is me! how high art Thou in the highest, and how deep
in the deepest! and Thou never departest, and we scarcely return to Thee.
Up, Lord, and do; stir us up, and recall us; kindle and draw us; inflame,
grow sweet unto us, let us now love, let us run. Do not many, out of a
deeper hell of blindness than Victorinus, return to Thee, approach, and are
enlightened, receiving that Light, which they who receive, receive power
from Thee to become Thy sons? But if they be less known to the nations,
even they that know them, joy less for them. For when many joy together,
each also has more exuberant joy for that they are kindled and inflamed one

by the other. Again, because those known to many, influence the more
towards salvation, and lead the way with many to follow. And therefore do
they also who preceded them much rejoice in them, because they rejoice not
in them alone. For far be it, that in Thy tabernacle the persons of the rich
should be accepted before the poor, or the noble before the ignoble; seeing
rather Thou hast chosen the weak things of the world to confound the
strong; and the base things of this world, and the things despised hast Thou
chosen, and those things which are not, that Thou mightest bring to nought
things that are. And yet even that least of Thy apostles, by whose tongue
Thou soundedst forth these words, when through his warfare, Paulus the
Proconsul, his pride conquered, was made to pass under the easy yoke of
Thy Christ, and became a provincial of the great King; he also for his
former name Saul, was pleased to be called Paul, in testimony of so great a
victory. For the enemy is more overcome in one, of whom he hath more
hold; by whom he hath hold of more. But the proud he hath more hold of,
through their nobility; and by them, of more through their authority. By
how much the more welcome then the heart of Victorinus was esteemed,
which the devil had held as an impregnable possession, the tongue of
Victorinus, with which mighty and keen weapon he had slain many; so
much the more abundantly ought Thy sons to rejoice, for that our King hath
bound the strong man, and they saw his vessels taken from him and
cleansed, and made meet for Thy honour; and become serviceable for the
Lord, unto every good work.
But when that man of Thine, Simplicianus, related to me this of
Victorinus, I was on fire to imitate him; for for this very end had he related
it. But when he had subjoined also, how in the days of the Emperor Julian a
law was made, whereby Christians were forbidden to teach the liberal
sciences or oratory; and how he, obeying this law, chose rather to give over
the wordy school than Thy Word, by which Thou makest eloquent the
tongues of the dumb; he seemed to me not more resolute than blessed, in
having thus found opportunity to wait on Thee only. Which thing I was
sighing for, bound as I was, not with another's irons, but by my own iron
will. My will the enemy held, and thence had made a chain for me, and
bound me. For of a forward will, was a lust made; and a lust served, became
custom; and custom not resisted, became necessity. By which links, as it
were, joined together (whence I called it a chain) a hard bondage held me
enthralled. But that new will which had begun to be in me, freely to serve

Thee, and to wish to enjoy Thee, O God, the only assured pleasantness, was
not yet able to overcome my former wilfulness, strengthened by age. Thus
did my two wills, one new, and the other old, one carnal, the other spiritual,
struggle within me; and by their discord, undid my soul.
Thus, I understood, by my own experience, what I had read, how the
flesh lusteth against the spirit and the spirit against the flesh. Myself verily
either way; yet more myself, in that which I approved in myself, than in that
which in myself I disapproved. For in this last, it was now for the more part
not myself, because in much I rather endured against my will, than acted
willingly. And yet it was through me that custom had obtained this power of
warring against me, because I had come willingly, whither I willed not. And
who has any right to speak against it, if just punishment follow the sinner?
Nor had I now any longer my former plea, that I therefore as yet hesitated
to be above the world and serve Thee, for that the truth was not altogether
ascertained to me; for now it too was. But I still under service to the earth,
refused to fight under Thy banner, and feared as much to be freed of all
incumbrances, as we should fear to be encumbered with it. Thus with the
baggage of this present world was I held down pleasantly, as in sleep: and
the thoughts wherein I meditated on Thee were like the efforts of such as
would awake, who yet overcome with a heavy drowsiness, are again
drenched therein. And as no one would sleep for ever, and in all men's sober
judgment waking is better, yet a man for the most part, feeling a heavy
lethargy in all his limbs, defers to shake off sleep, and though half
displeased, yet, even after it is time to rise, with pleasure yields to it, so was
I assured that much better were it for me to give myself up to Thy charity,
than to give myself over to mine own cupidity; but though the former
course satisfied me and gained the mastery, the latter pleased me and held
me mastered. Nor had I any thing to answer Thee calling to me, Awake,
thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.
And when Thou didst on all sides show me that what Thou saidst was true,
I, convicted by the truth, had nothing at all to answer, but only those dull
and drowsy words, "Anon, anon," "presently," "leave me but a little." But
"presently, presently," had no present, and my "little while" went on for a
long while; in vain I delighted in Thy law according to the inner man, when
another law in my members rebelled against the law of my mind, and led
me captive under the law of sin which was in my members. For the law of
sin is the violence of custom, whereby the mind is drawn and holden, even

against its will; but deservedly, for that it willingly fell into it. Who then
should deliver me thus wretched from the body of this death, but Thy grace
only, through Jesus Christ our Lord?
And how Thou didst deliver me out of the bonds of desire, wherewith I
was bound most straitly to carnal concupiscence, and out of the drudgery of
worldly things, I will now declare, and confess unto Thy name, O Lord, my
helper and my redeemer. Amid increasing anxiety, I was doing my wonted
business, and daily sighing unto Thee. I attended Thy Church, whenever
free from the business under the burden of which I groaned. Alypius was
with me, now after the third sitting released from his law business, and
awaiting to whom to sell his counsel, as I sold the skill of speaking, if
indeed teaching can impart it. Nebridius had now, in consideration of our
friendship, consented to teach under Verecundus, a citizen and a
grammarian of Milan, and a very intimate friend of us all; who urgently
desired, and by the right of friendship challenged from our company, such
faithful aid as he greatly needed. Nebridius then was not drawn to this by
any desire of advantage (for he might have made much more of his learning
had he so willed), but as a most kind and gentle friend, he would not be
wanting to a good office, and slight our request. But he acted herein very
discreetly, shunning to become known to personages great according to this
world, avoiding the distraction of mind thence ensuing, and desiring to have
it free and at leisure, as many hours as might be, to seek, or read, or hear
something concerning wisdom.
Upon a day then, Nebridius being absent (I recollect not why), lo, there
came to see me and Alypius, one Pontitianus, our countryman so far as
being an African, in high office in the Emperor's court. What he would with
us, I know not, but we sat down to converse, and it happened that upon a
table for some game, before us, he observed a book, took, opened it, and
contrary to his expectation, found it the Apostle Paul; for he thought it some
of those books which I was wearing myself in teaching. Whereat smiling,
and looking at me, he expressed his joy and wonder that he had on a sudden
found this book, and this only before my eyes. For he was a Christian, and
baptised, and often bowed himself before Thee our God in the Church, in
frequent and continued prayers. When then I had told him that I bestowed
very great pains upon those Scriptures, a conversation arose (suggested by
his account) on Antony the Egyptian monk: whose name was in high
reputation among Thy servants, though to that hour unknown to us. Which

when he discovered, he dwelt the more upon that subject, informing and
wondering at our ignorance of one so eminent. But we stood amazed,
hearing Thy wonderful works most fully attested, in times so recent, and
almost in our own, wrought in the true Faith and Church Catholic. We all
wondered; we, that they were so great, and he, that they had not reached us.
Thence his discourse turned to the flocks in the monasteries, and their
holy ways, a sweet-smelling savour unto Thee, and the fruitful deserts of
the wilderness, whereof we knew nothing. And there was a monastery at
Milan, full of good brethren, without the city walls, under the fostering care
of Ambrose, and we knew it not. He went on with his discourse, and we
listened in intent silence. He told us then how one afternoon at Triers, when
the Emperor was taken up with the Circensian games, he and three others,
his companions, went out to walk in gardens near the city walls, and there
as they happened to walk in pairs, one went apart with him, and the other
two wandered by themselves; and these, in their wanderings, lighted upon a
certain cottage, inhabited by certain of Thy servants, poor in spirit, of whom
is the kingdom of heaven, and there they found a little book containing the
life of Antony. This one of them began to read, admire, and kindle at it; and
as he read, to meditate on taking up such a life, and giving over his secular
service to serve Thee. And these two were of those whom they style agents
for the public affairs. Then suddenly, filled with a holy love, and a sober
shame, in anger with himself cast his eyes upon his friend, saying, "Tell me,
I pray thee, what would we attain by all these labours of ours? what aim we
at? what serve we for? Can our hopes in court rise higher than to be the
Emperor's favourites? and in this, what is there not brittle, and full of perils?
and by how many perils arrive we at a greater peril? and when arrive we
thither? But a friend of God, if I wish it, I become now at once." So spake
he. And in pain with the travail of a new life, he turned his eyes again upon
the book, and read on, and was changed inwardly, where Thou sawest, and
his mind was stripped of the world, as soon appeared. For as he read, and
rolled up and down the waves of his heart, he stormed at himself a while,
then discerned, and determined on a better course; and now being Thine,
said to his friend, "Now have I broken loose from those our hopes, and am
resolved to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I begin upon.
If thou likest not to imitate me, oppose not." The other answered, he would
cleave to him, to partake so glorious a reward, so glorious a service. Thus
both being now Thine, were building the tower at the necessary cost, the

forsaking all that they had, and following Thee. Then Pontitianus and the
other with him, that had walked in other parts of the garden, came in search
of them to the same place; and finding them, reminded them to return, for
the day was now far spent. But they relating their resolution and purpose,
and how that will was begun and settled in them, begged them, if they
would not join, not to molest them. But the others, though nothing altered
from their former selves, did yet bewail themselves (as he affirmed), and
piously congratulated them, recommending themselves to their prayers; and
so, with hearts lingering on the earth, went away to the palace. But the other
two, fixing their heart on heaven, remained in the cottage. And both had
affianced brides, who when they heard hereof, also dedicated their virginity
unto God.
Such was the story of Pontitianus; but Thou, O Lord, while he was
speaking, didst turn me round towards myself, taking me from behind my
back where I had placed me, unwilling to observe myself; and setting me
before my face, that I might see how foul I was, how crooked and defiled,
bespotted and ulcerous. And I beheld and stood aghast; and whither to flee
from myself I found not. And if I sought to turn mine eye from off myself,
he went on with his relation, and Thou again didst set me over against
myself, and thrustedst me before my eyes, that I might find out mine
iniquity, and hate it. I had known it, but made as though I saw it not, winked
at it, and forgot it.
But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthful affections I
heard of, that they had resigned themselves wholly to Thee to be cured, the
more did I abhor myself, when compared with them. For many of my years
(some twelve) had now run out with me since my nineteenth, when, upon
the reading of Cicero's Hortensius, I was stirred to an earnest love of
wisdom; and still I was deferring to reject mere earthly felicity, and give
myself to search out that, whereof not the finding only, but the very search,
was to be preferred to the treasures and kingdoms of the world, though
already found, and to the pleasures of the body, though spread around me at
my will. But I wretched, most wretched, in the very commencement of my
early youth, had begged chastity of Thee, and said, "Give me chastity and
continency, only not yet." For I feared lest Thou shouldest hear me soon,
and soon cure me of the disease of concupiscence, which I wished to have
satisfied, rather than extinguished. And I had wandered through crooked
ways in a sacrilegious superstition, not indeed assured thereof, but as

preferring it to the others which I did not seek religiously, but opposed
maliciously.
And I had thought that I therefore deferred from day to day to reject the
hopes of this world, and follow Thee only, because there did not appear
aught certain, whither to direct my course. And now was the day come
wherein I was to be laid bare to myself, and my conscience was to upbraid
me. "Where art thou now, my tongue? Thou saidst that for an uncertain
truth thou likedst not to cast off the baggage of vanity; now, it is certain,
and yet that burden still oppresseth thee, while they who neither have so
worn themselves out with seeking it, nor for often years and more have
been thinking thereon, have had their shoulders lightened, and received
wings to fly away." Thus was I gnawed within, and exceedingly confounded
with a horrible shame, while Pontitianus was so speaking. And he having
brought to a close his tale and the business he came for, went his way; and I
into myself. What said I not against myself? with what scourges of
condemnation lashed I not my soul, that it might follow me, striving to go
after Thee! Yet it drew back; refused, but excused not itself. All arguments
were spent and confuted; there remained a mute shrinking; and she feared,
as she would death, to be restrained from the flux of that custom, whereby
she was wasting to death.
Then in this great contention of my inward dwelling, which I had
strongly raised against my soul, in the chamber of my heart, troubled in
mind and countenance, I turned upon Alypius. "What ails us?" I exclaim:
"what is it? what heardest thou? The unlearned start up and take heaven by
force, and we with our learning, and without heart, lo, where we wallow in
flesh and blood! Are we ashamed to follow, because others are gone before,
and not ashamed not even to follow?" Some such words I uttered, and my
fever of mind tore me away from him, while he, gazing on me in
astonishment, kept silence. For it was not my wonted tone; and my
forehead, cheeks, eyes, colour, tone of voice, spake my mind more than the
words I uttered. A little garden there was to our lodging, which we had the
use of, as of the whole house; for the master of the house, our host, was not
living there. Thither had the tumult of my breast hurried me, where no man
might hinder the hot contention wherein I had engaged with myself, until it
should end as Thou knewest, I knew not. Only I was healthfully distracted
and dying, to live; knowing what evil thing I was, and not knowing what
good thing I was shortly to become. I retired then into the garden, and

Alypius, on my steps. For his presence did not lessen my privacy; or how
could he forsake me so disturbed? We sate down as far removed as might be
from the house. I was troubled in spirit, most vehemently indignant that I
entered not into Thy will and covenant, O my God, which all my bones
cried out unto me to enter, and praised it to the skies. And therein we enter
not by ships, or chariots, or feet, no, move not so far as I had come from the
house to that place where we were sitting. For, not to go only, but to go in
thither was nothing else but to will to go, but to will resolutely and
thoroughly; not to turn and toss, this way and that, a maimed and half-
divided will, struggling, with one part sinking as another rose.
Lastly, in the very fever of my irresoluteness, I made with my body many
such motions as men sometimes would, but cannot, if either they have not
the limbs, or these be bound with bands, weakened with infirmity, or any
other way hindered. Thus, if I tore my hair, beat my forehead, if locking my
fingers I clasped my knee; I willed, I did it. But I might have willed, and not
done it; if the power of motion in my limbs had not obeyed. So many things
then I did, when "to will" was not in itself "to be able"; and I did not what
both I longed incomparably more to do, and which soon after, when I
should will, I should be able to do; because soon after, when I should will, I
should will thoroughly. For in these things the ability was one with the will,
and to will was to do; and yet was it not done: and more easily did my body
obey the weakest willing of my soul, in moving its limbs at its nod, than the
soul obeyed itself to accomplish in the will alone this its momentous will.
Whence is this monstrousness? and to what end? Let Thy mercy gleam
that I may ask, if so be the secret penalties of men, and those darkest pangs
of the sons of Adam, may perhaps answer me. Whence is this
monstrousness? and to what end? The mind commands the body, and it
obeys instantly; the mind commands itself, and is resisted. The mind
commands the hand to be moved; and such readiness is there, that
command is scarce distinct from obedience. Yet the mind is mind, the hand
is body. The mind commands the mind, its own self, to will, and yet it doth
not. Whence this monstrousness? and to what end? It commands itself, I
say, to will, and would not command, unless it willed, and what it
commands is not done. But it willeth not entirely: therefore doth it not
command entirely. For so far forth it commandeth, as it willeth: and, so far
forth is the thing commanded, not done, as it willeth not. For the will
commandeth that there be a will; not another, but itself. But it doth not

command entirely, therefore what it commandeth, is not. For were the will
entire, it would not even command it to be, because it would already be. It
is therefore no monstrousness partly to will, partly to nill, but a disease of
the mind, that it doth not wholly rise, by truth upborne, borne down by
custom. And therefore are there two wills, for that one of them is not entire:
and what the one lacketh, the other hath.
Let them perish from Thy presence, O God, as perish vain talkers and
seducers of the soul: who observing that in deliberating there were two
wills, affirm that there are two minds in us of two kinds, one good, the other
evil. Themselves are truly evil, when they hold these evil things; and
themselves shall become good when they hold the truth and assent unto the
truth, that Thy Apostle may say to them, Ye were sometimes darkness, but
now light in the Lord. But they, wishing to be light, not in the Lord, but in
themselves, imagining the nature of the soul to be that which God is, are
made more gross darkness through a dreadful arrogancy; for that they went
back farther from Thee, the true Light that enlightened every man that
cometh into the world. Take heed what you say, and blush for shame: draw
near unto Him and be enlightened, and your faces shall not be ashamed.
Myself when I was deliberating upon serving the Lord my God now, as I
had long purposed, it was I who willed, I who nilled, I, I myself. I neither
willed entirely, nor nilled entirely. Therefore was I at strife with myself, and
rent asunder by myself. And this rent befell me against my will, and yet
indicated, not the presence of another mind, but the punishment of my own.
Therefore it was no more I that wrought it, but sin that dwelt in me; the
punishment of a sin more freely committed, in that I was a son of Adam.
For if there be so many contrary natures as there be conflicting wills,
there shall now be not two only, but many. If a man deliberate whether he
should go to their conventicle or to the theatre, these Manichees cry out,
Behold, here are two natures: one good, draws this way; another bad, draws
back that way. For whence else is this hesitation between conflicting wills?
But I say that both be bad: that which draws to them, as that which draws
back to the theatre. But they believe not that will to be other than good,
which draws to them. What then if one of us should deliberate, and amid the
strife of his two wills be in a strait, whether he should go to the theatre or to
our church? would not these Manichees also be in a strait what to answer?
For either they must confess (which they fain would not) that the will which
leads to our church is good, as well as theirs, who have received and are

held by the mysteries of theirs: or they must suppose two evil natures, and
two evil souls conflicting in one man, and it will not be true, which they
say, that there is one good and another bad; or they must be converted to the
truth, and no more deny that where one deliberates, one soul fluctuates
between contrary wills.
Let them no more say then, when they perceive two conflicting wills in
one man, that the conflict is between two contrary souls, of two contrary
substances, from two contrary principles, one good, and the other bad. For
Thou, O true God, dost disprove, check, and convict them; as when, both
wills being bad, one deliberates whether he should kill a man by poison or
by the sword; whether he should seize this or that estate of another's, when
he cannot both; whether he should purchase pleasure by luxury, or keep his
money by covetousness; whether he go to the circus or the theatre, if both
be open on one day; or thirdly, to rob another's house, if he have the
opportunity; or, fourthly, to commit adultery, if at the same time he have the
means thereof also; all these meeting together in the same juncture of time,
and all being equally desired, which cannot at one time be acted: for they
rend the mind amid four, or even (amid the vast variety of things desired)
more, conflicting wills, nor do they yet allege that there are so many divers
substances. So also in wills which are good. For I ask them, is it good to
take pleasure in reading the Apostle? or good to take pleasure in a sober
Psalm? or good to discourse on the Gospel? They will answer to each, "it is
good." What then if all give equal pleasure, and all at once? Do not divers
wills distract the mind, while he deliberates which he should rather choose?
yet are they all good, and are at variance till one be chosen, whither the one
entire will may be borne, which before was divided into many. Thus also,
when, above, eternity delights us, and the pleasure of temporal good holds
us down below, it is the same soul which willeth not this or that with an
entire will; and therefore is rent asunder with grievous perplexities, while
out of truth it sets this first, but out of habit sets not that aside.
Thus soul-sick was I, and tormented, accusing myself much more
severely than my wont, rolling and turning me in my chain, till that were
wholly broken, whereby I now was but just, but still was, held. And Thou,
O Lord, pressedst upon me in my inward parts by a severe mercy,
redoubling the lashes of fear and shame, lest I should again give way, and
not bursting that same slight remaining tie, it should recover strength, and
bind me the faster. For I said with myself, "Be it done now, be it done now."

And as I spake, I all but enacted it: I all but did it, and did it not: yet sunk
not back to my former state, but kept my stand hard by, and took breath.
And I essayed again, and wanted somewhat less of it, and somewhat less,
and all but touched, and laid hold of it; and yet came not at it, nor touched
nor laid hold of it; hesitating to die to death and to live to life: and the worse
whereto I was inured, prevailed more with me than the better whereto I was
unused: and the very moment wherein I was to become other than I was, the
nearer it approached me, the greater horror did it strike into me; yet did it
not strike me back, nor turned me away, but held me in suspense.
The very toys of toys, and vanities of vanities, my ancient mistresses, still
held me; they plucked my fleshy garment, and whispered softly, "Dost thou
cast us off? and from that moment shall we no more be with thee for ever?
and from that moment shall not this or that be lawful for thee for ever?"
And what was it which they suggested in that I said, "this or that," what did
they suggest, O my God? Let Thy mercy turn it away from the soul of Thy
servant. What defilements did they suggest! what shame! And now I much
less than half heard them, and not openly showing themselves and
contradicting me, but muttering as it were behind my back, and privily
plucking me, as I was departing, but to look back on them. Yet they did
retard me, so that I hesitated to burst and shake myself free from them, and
to spring over whither I was called; a violent habit saying to me, "Thinkest
thou, thou canst live without them?"
But now it spake very faintly. For on that side whither I had set my face,
and whither I trembled to go, there appeared unto me the chaste dignity of
Continency, serene, yet not relaxedly, gay, honestly alluring me to come and
doubt not; and stretching forth to receive and embrace me, her holy hands
full of multitudes of good examples: there were so many young men and
maidens here, a multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and aged
virgins; and Continence herself in all, not barren, but a fruitful mother of
children of joys, by Thee her Husband, O Lord. And she smiled on me with
a persuasive mockery, as would she say, "Canst not thou what these youths,
what these maidens can? or can they either in themselves, and not rather in
the Lord their God? The Lord their God gave me unto them. Why standest
thou in thyself, and so standest not? cast thyself upon Him, fear not He will
not withdraw Himself that thou shouldest fall; cast thyself fearlessly upon
Him, He will receive, and will heal thee." And I blushed exceedingly, for
that I yet heard the muttering of those toys, and hung in suspense. And she

again seemed to say, "Stop thine ears against those thy unclean members on
the earth, that they may be mortified. They tell thee of delights, but not as
doth the law of the Lord thy God." This controversy in my heart was self
against self only. But Alypius sitting close by my side, in silence waited the
issue of my unwonted emotion.
But when a deep consideration had from the secret bottom of my soul
drawn together and heaped up all my misery in the sight of my heart; there
arose a mighty storm, bringing a mighty shower of tears. Which that I might
pour forth wholly, in its natural expressions, I rose from Alypius: solitude
was suggested to me as fitter for the business of weeping; so I retired so far
that even his presence could not be a burden to me. Thus was it then with
me, and he perceived something of it; for something I suppose I had
spoken, wherein the tones of my voice appeared choked with weeping, and
so had risen up. He then remained where we were sitting, most extremely
astonished. I cast myself down I know not how, under a certain fig-tree,
giving full vent to my tears; and the floods of mine eyes gushed out an
acceptable sacrifice to Thee. And, not indeed in these words, yet to this
purpose, spake I much unto Thee: and Thou, O Lord, how long? how long,
Lord, wilt Thou be angry for ever? Remember not our former iniquities, for
I felt that I was held by them. I sent up these sorrowful words: How long,
how long, "tomorrow, and tomorrow?" Why not now? why not is there this
hour an end to my uncleanness?
So was I speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart,
when, lo! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice, as of boy or girl, I
know not, chanting, and oft repeating, "Take up and read; Take up and
read." Instantly, my countenance altered, I began to think most intently
whether children were wont in any kind of play to sing such words: nor
could I remember ever to have heard the like. So checking the torrent of my
tears, I arose; interpreting it to be no other than a command from God to
open the book, and read the first chapter I should find. For I had heard of
Antony, that coming in during the reading of the Gospel, he received the
admonition, as if what was being read was spoken to him: Go, sell all that
thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and
come and follow me: and by such oracle he was forthwith converted unto
Thee. Eagerly then I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting; for
there had I laid the volume of the Apostle when I arose thence. I seized,
opened, and in silence read that section on which my eyes first fell: Not in

rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife
and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision
for the flesh, in concupiscence. No further would I read; nor needed I: for
instantly at the end of this sentence, by a light as it were of serenity infused
into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away.
Then putting my finger between, or some other mark, I shut the volume,
and with a calmed countenance made it known to Alypius. And what was
wrought in him, which I knew not, he thus showed me. He asked to see
what I had read: I showed him; and he looked even further than I had read,
and I knew not what followed. This followed, him that is weak in the faith,
receive; which he applied to himself, and disclosed to me. And by this
admonition was he strengthened; and by a good resolution and purpose, and
most corresponding to his character, wherein he did always very far differ
from me, for the better, without any turbulent delay he joined me. Thence
we go in to my mother; we tell her; she rejoiceth: we relate in order how it
took place; she leaps for joy, and triumpheth, and blesseth Thee, Who are
able to do above that which we ask or think; for she perceived that Thou
hadst given her more for me, than she was wont to beg by her pitiful and
most sorrowful groanings. For thou convertedst me unto Thyself, so that I
sought neither wife, nor any hope of this world, standing in that rule of
faith, where Thou hadst showed me unto her in a vision, so many years
before. And Thou didst convert her mourning into joy, much more plentiful
than she had desired, and in a much more precious and purer way than she
erst required, by having grandchildren of my body.

BOOK IX

O Lord, I am Thy servant; I am Thy servant, and the son of Thy
handmaid: Thou hast broken my bonds in sunder. 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 not my deeds, my words, or
if not my words, my will? But Thou, O Lord, are 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 nill what I willed, and to will what Thou willedst. But where through all
those years, and out of what low and deep recess was my free-will called
forth in a moment, whereby to submit my neck to 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
sweetnesses 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 enteredst 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. Now 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.
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
law-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 known to Thee; but to men, other than our own friends,
was it 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 hadst given sharp arrows, and destroying
coals against the subtle tongue, which as though advising for us, would
thwart, and would out of love devour us, as it doth its meat.
Thou hadst 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 hadst made bright, and for dead, alive, being piled
together in the receptacle of our thoughts, kindled and burned up that our
heavy torpor, 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 hast 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 labour, 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. Full then of such joy, I endured till that
interval of time were run; it may have been some twenty days, yet they
were endured manfully; endured, for the covetousness which aforetime 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 hast not Thou, O most merciful
Lord, pardoned and remitted this sin also, with my other most horrible and
deadly sins, in the holy water?
Verecundus was worn down with care about this our blessedness, for that
being held back by bonds, whereby he was most straitly bound, he saw that
he should be severed from us. For himself was not yet a Christian, his wife
one of the faithful; and yet hereby, more rigidly than by any other chain,
was he let and hindered from the journey which we had now essayed. 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 hast already given him the lot of
the righteous. For although, in our absence, 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 hadst Thou mercy not on him only, 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 agonised with
intolerable sorrow. Thanks unto Thee, our God, we are Thine: Thy
suggestions and consolations tell us, Faithful in promises, Thou now
requitest Verecundus for his country-house of Cassiacum, where from the
fever of the world we reposed 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 Nebridius joy. For although he also,
not being yet a Christian, had fallen into the pit of that most pernicious
error, believing the flesh of Thy Son to be a phantom: yet emerging thence,
he believed as we did; not as yet endued 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 Thee in perfect 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 Nebridius, 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, endlessly 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 Verecundus, who sorrowed, as far as
friendship permitted, that our conversion was of such sort; and exhorting
him to become faithful, according to his measure, namely, of a married
estate; and awaiting Nebridius to follow us, which, being so near, he was all
but doing: and so, lo! those days rolled by at length; for long and many they
seemed, for the love I bare to the easeful liberty, that I might sing to Thee,
from my inmost marrow, My heart hath said unto Thee, I have sought Thy
face: Thy face, Lord, will I seek.
Now was the day come wherein I was in deed 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 hadst 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 Nebridius, who was 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 tamedst 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 subduedst the brother of my heart, Alypius, unto the name of Thy
Only Begotten, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, which he would not at
first vouchsafe to have inserted in our writings. For rather would he have
them savour 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.
Oh, in what accents spake I unto Thee, my God, when I read the Psalms
of David, those 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 Alypius a Catechumen, my mother cleaving to us, in
female garb with masculine faith, with the tranquillity of age, motherly

love, Christian piety! Oh, what accents 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
himself from Thy heat. With what vehement and bitter sorrow was I
angered at the Manichees! and again I pitied them, for 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 then
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
enlargedst me. Have mercy upon me, O 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
perceived 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 ye love vanity, and seek after leasing? For I had
loved vanity, and sought after leasing. And Thou, O Lord, hadst already
magnified Thy Holy One, raising Him from the dead, and setting Him at
Thy right hand, whence 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 yet
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, was there vanity and leasing; and I
spake aloud many things earnestly and forcibly, in the bitterness of my

remembrance. Which would they had heard, who yet love vanity and seek
after leasing! They would perchance have been troubled, and have vomited
it up; and Thou wouldest 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 was I moved, O my God,
who had now learned to be angry at myself for things past, that I might not
sin in time to come! Yea, 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 of
the revelation of Thy just 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 become vain, and waste themselves on the
things seen and temporal, and in their famished thoughts do lick their very
shadows. Oh that they were wearied out 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 we are enlightened by Thee; that 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 in their eyes roving abroad
from Thee, while they said, Who will show us good things? For there,
where I was angry within 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 hadst Thou begun to
grow sweet unto me, and hadst 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, and 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 and 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 in Thee is rest which forgetteth 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 bawler against those
writings, which are honied 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 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 my 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 Thy baptism.
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 errors 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.
Thence, when the time was come wherein I was to give in my name, we
left the country and returned to Milan. It pleased Alypius 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 unwonted
venture, to wear the frozen ground of Italy with his bare feet. We joined
with us the boy Adeodatus, born after the flesh, of my sin. Excellently hadst
Thou made him. He was not quite fifteen, and in wit surpassed many grave
and learned men. I confess unto Thee Thy gifts, O Lord my God, Creator of
all, and abundantly 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 in grace, to be brought up in Thy discipline: and we were
baptised, and anxiety for our past life vanished from us. Nor was I sated in
those days with the wondrous sweetness of considering the depth of Thy
counsels 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.
Not long had the Church of Milan begun to use this kind of consolation
and exhortation, the brethren zealously joining with harmony of voice 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 Arians. The devout people kept
watch in the Church, ready to die with their Bishop Thy servant. There my
mother Thy handmaid, bearing a chief part of those 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,
divers (yea, almost all) 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 Gervasius and Protasius the martyrs lay hid (whom Thou hadst in
Thy secret treasury stored uncorrupted so many years), whence Thou
mightest seasonably 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 bier 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, O my God. Whence and whither hast Thou thus led my
remembrance, that I should confess these things also unto Thee? which
great though they be, I had passed by in forgetfulness. And yet then, when
the odour of Thy ointments 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 our house of grass.
Thou that makest men to dwell of one mind in one house, didst join with
us Euodius also, a young man of our own city. Who being an officer of
Court, was before us converted to Thee and baptised: 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: whitherward being as far as
Ostia, my mother departed this life. Much I omit, as hastening much.
Receive my confessions and thanksgivings, O 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 be born to this temporal light, and in 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 createdst her;
nor did her father and mother know what a one should come from them.
And the sceptre of Thy Christ, the discipline of Thine only Son, in a
Christian house, a good member of Thy Church, educated her in Thy fear.
Yet for her good discipline was she wont 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, and excellent
conversation, was she, in that Christian family, well respected by its heads.

Whence also the charge of her master's daughters 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 temporately fed at their parents'
table, she would not suffer them, though parched with thirst, to drink even
water; preventing an evil custom, and adding this wholesome advice: "Ye
drink water now, because you have not wine in your power; but when you
come to be married, and be made mistresses of cellars and cupboards, you
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 moulded their very thirst to 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 bidden by her parents to draw wine out of the hogshed, holding the
vessel under the opening, before she poured the wine into the flagon, 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 wont to be kept under by the gravity of their elders. And
thus by adding to that little, daily littles (for whoso despiseth little things
shall fall by little and little), she had fallen into such a habit as greedily to
drink off her little cup brim-full almost of wine. Where was then that
discreet old woman, and that her earnest countermanding? Would aught
avail against a secret disease, if Thy healing hand, O Lord, watched not
over us? Father, mother, and governors absent, Thou present, who createdst,
who callest, who also by those set over us, workest something towards the
salvation of our souls, what didst Thou then, O my God? how didst Thou
cure her? how heal her? didst 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 wine-bibber. 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, dost Thou 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 in heaven and earth, who turnest to Thy
purposes the deepest currents, and the ruled turbulence of the tide of times,
didst 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.
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; by which Thou ornamentedst 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 in deed
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 haply
he had overhastily 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 husbands' 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 so, remembering their condition,
ought not to set themselves up against their lords." And when 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, 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 bestowedst, O my God, my mercy, upon that
good handmaid of Thine, in whose womb Thou createdst 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 indigested choler uses to break out into, when the
crudities of enmities are breathed out in sour discourses to a present friend
against an absent enemy, she never would disclose aught 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 know numberless persons, who through
some horrible and wide-spreading contagion of sin, not only disclose to
persons mutually angered things said in anger, but add withal things never
spoken, whereas to humane humanity, it ought to seem a light thing not to
foment or increase ill will by ill words, unless one study withal 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 Thy own gift Thou
sufferest to speak), us, who before her sleeping in Thee lived united
together, having received the grace of Thy baptism, did she so take care of,
as though she had been mother of us all; so served us, as though she had
been child to us all.

The day now approaching whereon she was to depart this life (which day
Thou well knewest, 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 in a
certain window, which looked into the garden of the house where we now
lay, at Ostia; where 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 enquiring
between ourselves in the presence of the Truth, which Thou art, of what sort
the eternal life of the saints was to be, which eye 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 capacity, we might in some sort meditate upon so high a mystery.
And when our discourse was brought to that point, that the very highest
delight of the earthly senses, in the very purest material light, was, in
respect of the sweetness of that life, not only not 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 have been, and what shall be, and
she is not made, but is, as she hath been, and so shall she be ever; 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 effort 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 like unto Thy Word, our Lord, who endureth in Himself
without becoming old, and maketh all things new?
We were saying then: If to any the tumult of the flesh were hushed,
hushed the images of earth, and waters, and air, hushed also the pole 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 made not ourselves, but He made us that abideth for
ever—If then having uttered this, they too should be hushed, having roused
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 two 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 these inward
joys, so that life might be for ever like that one moment of understanding
which now we sighed after; were 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 any thing in this life. What I do here any longer, and to
what 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 withal,
despising earthly happiness, become His servant: what do I here?"
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 brother standing by her, said to us
enquiringly, "Where was I?" And then looking fixedly on us, with grief
amazed: "Here," saith she, "shall you bury your mother." I held my peace
and refrained weeping; but my brother spake something, wishing for her, as
the happier lot, that she might die, not in a strange place, but in her own
land. Whereat, she with anxious look, checking him with her eyes, for that
he still savoured such things, and then looking upon me: "Behold," saith

she, "what he saith": and soon after to us both, "Lay," she saith, "this body
any where; 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 fulness of
Thy goodness begun to cease in her heart, I knew not, and rejoiced
admiring what she had so disclosed to me; though indeed in that our
discourse also in the window, when she said, "What do I here 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 discoursed with 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 hadst 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 recognise whence He were to raise me up." On the ninth day
then of her sickness, and the fifty-sixth year of her age, and the three-and-
thirtieth of mine, was that religious and holy soul freed from the body.
I closed her eyes; and there flowed withal 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 Adeodatus
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 solemnise 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 unfeigned.
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 joyed indeed in her testimony, when, in that her last
sickness, mingling her endearments with my acts of duty, she called me
"dutiful," and mentioned, with great affection of love, that she never had
heard any harsh or reproachful sound uttered by my mouth against her. But
yet, O my God, Who madest us, what comparison is there betwixt that
honour that I paid to her, and her slavery for me? Being 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, Euodius took up the Psalter,
and began to sing, our whole house answering him, the Psalm, I will sing of
mercy and judgments to Thee, O 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 a 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 Thy
ears, where 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 change of
countenance; still I knew what I was keeping down in 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 (balneum) from the
Greek Balaneion 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 Ambrose. For Thou art the
"Maker of all, the Lord,
And Ruler of the height,
Who, robing day in light, hast poured
Soft slumbers o'er the night,
That to our limbs the power
Of toil may be renew'd,
And hearts be rais'd that sink and cower,
And sorrows be subdu'd."

And then by little and 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 my 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 it 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.
But now, with a heart 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 dieth 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 regeneratedst her by baptism,
no word issued from her mouth against Thy Commandment. Thy Son, the
Truth, hath said, Whosoever shall say unto his brother, Thou fool, shall be
in danger of hell fire. And woe be even unto the commendable life of men,
if, laying aside mercy, Thou shouldest examine it. But because Thou art not
extreme in enquiring 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 glorieth would glory in the Lord.
I therefore, O 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. Hearken unto me, I entreat Thee,
by the Medicine of our wounds, Who hung upon the tree, and now sitting at
Thy right hand maketh intercession to Thee for us. I know that she dealt
mercifully, and from her heart forgave her debtors their debts; do Thou 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;
enter 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 gavest them to be, who wilt have mercy on whom
Thou wilt have mercy; and wilt have compassion on whom Thou hast had
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: whence she knew the holy Sacrifice to be
dispensed, by which the hand-writing that was against us is blotted out;
through which the enemy was triumphed over, who summing up our
offences, and seeking what to 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 interpose 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 rest then 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, and pen I serve, that so many as shall read these Confessions,
may at Thy Altar remember Monnica Thy handmaid, with Patricius, 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 our Catholic
Mother, and my fellow-citizens in that eternal Jerusalem which Thy pilgrim
people sigheth after from their Exodus, even unto their return 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 to her.

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.

BOOK XI

Lord, since eternity is Thine, art Thou ignorant of what I say to Thee? or
dost Thou see in time, what passeth in time? Why then do I lay in order
before Thee so many relations? Not, of a truth, that Thou mightest learn
them through me, but to stir up mine own and my readers' devotions
towards Thee, that we may all say, Great is the Lord, and greatly to be
praised. I have said already; and again will say, for love of Thy love do I
this. For we pray also, and yet Truth hath said, Your Father knoweth what
you have need of, before you ask. It is then our affections which we lay
open unto Thee, confessing our own miseries, and Thy mercies upon us,
that Thou mayest free us wholly, since Thou hast begun, that we may cease
to be wretched in ourselves, and be blessed in Thee; seeing Thou hast called
us, to become poor in spirit, and meek, and mourners, and hungering and
athirst after righteousness, and merciful, and pure in heart, and peace-
makers. See, I have told Thee many things, as I could and as I would,
because Thou first wouldest that I should confess unto Thee, my Lord God.
For Thou art good, for Thy mercy endureth for ever.
But how shall I suffice with the tongue of my pen to utter all Thy
exhortations, and all Thy terrors, and comforts, and guidances, whereby
Thou broughtest me to preach Thy Word, and dispense Thy Sacrament to
Thy people? And if I suffice to utter them in order, the drops of time are
precious with me; and long have I burned to meditate in Thy law, and
therein to confess to Thee my skill and unskilfulness, the day-break of Thy
enlightening, and the remnants of my darkness, until infirmity be
swallowed up by strength. And I would not have aught besides steal away
those hours which I find free from the necessities of refreshing my body
and the powers of my mind, and of the service which we owe to men, or
which though we owe not, we yet pay.
O Lord my God, give ear unto my prayer, and let Thy mercy hearken
unto my desire: because it is anxious not for myself alone, but would serve
brotherly charity; and Thou seest my heart, that so it is. I would sacrifice to

Thee the service of my thought and tongue; do Thou give me, what I may
offer Thee. For I am poor and needy, Thou rich to all that call upon Thee;
Who, inaccessible to care, carest for us. Circumcise from all rashness and
all lying both my inward and outward lips: let Thy Scriptures be my pure
delights: let me not be deceived in them, nor deceive out of them. Lord,
hearken and pity, O Lord my God, Light of the blind, and Strength of the
weak; yea also Light of those that see, and Strength of the strong; hearken
unto my soul, and hear it crying out of the depths. For if Thine ears be not
with us in the depths also, whither shall we go? whither cry? The day is
Thine, and the night is Thine; at Thy beck the moments flee by. Grant
thereof a space for our meditations in the hidden things of Thy law, and
close it not against us who knock. For not in vain wouldest Thou have the
darksome secrets of so many pages written; nor are those forests without
their harts which retire therein and range and walk; feed, lie down, and
ruminate. Perfect me, O Lord, and reveal them unto me. Behold, Thy voice
is my joy; Thy voice exceedeth the abundance of pleasures. Give what I
love: for I do love; and this hast Thou given: forsake not Thy own gifts, nor
despise Thy green herb that thirsteth. Let me confess unto Thee whatsoever
I shall find in Thy books, and hear the voice of praise, and drink in Thee,
and meditate on the wonderful things out of Thy law; even from the
beginning, wherein Thou madest the heaven and the earth, unto the
everlasting reigning of Thy holy city with Thee.
Lord, have mercy on me, and hear my desire. For it is not, I deem, of the
earth, not of gold and silver, and precious stones, or gorgeous apparel, or
honours and offices, or the pleasures of the flesh, or necessaries for the
body and for this life of our pilgrimage: all which shall be added unto those
that seek Thy kingdom and Thy righteousness. Behold, O Lord my God,
wherein is my desire. The wicked have told me of delights, but not such as
Thy law, O Lord. Behold, wherein is my desire. Behold, Father, behold, and
see and approve; and be it pleasing in the sight of Thy mercy, that I may
find grace before Thee, that the inward parts of Thy words be opened to me
knocking. I beseech by our Lord Jesus Christ Thy Son, the Man of Thy
right hand, the Son of man, whom Thou hast established for Thyself, as Thy
Mediator and ours, through Whom Thou soughtest us, not seeking Thee, but
soughtest us, that we might seek Thee,—Thy Word, through Whom Thou
madest all things, and among them, me also;—Thy Only-Begotten, through
Whom Thou calledst to adoption the believing people, and therein me also;

—I beseech Thee by Him, who sitteth at Thy right hand, and intercedeth
with Thee for us, in Whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and
knowledge. These do I seek in Thy books. Of Him did Moses write; this
saith Himself; this saith the Truth.
I would hear and understand, how "In the Beginning Thou madest the
heaven and earth." Moses wrote this, wrote and departed, passed hence
from Thee to Thee; nor is he now before me. For if he were, I would hold
him and ask him, and beseech him by Thee to open these things unto me,
and would lay the ears of my body to the sounds bursting out of his mouth.
And should he speak Hebrew, in vain will it strike on my senses, nor would
aught of it touch my mind; but if Latin, I should know what he said. But
whence should I know, whether he spake truth? Yea, and if I knew this also,
should I know it from him? Truly within me, within, in the chamber of my
thoughts, Truth, neither Hebrew, nor Greek, nor Latin, nor barbarian,
without organs of voice or tongue, or sound of syllables, would say, "It is
truth," and I forthwith should say confidently to that man of Thine, "thou
sayest truly." Whereas then I cannot enquire of him, Thee, Thee I beseech,
O Truth, full of Whom he spake truth, Thee, my God, I beseech, forgive my
sins; and Thou, who gavest him Thy servant to speak these things, give to
me also to understand them.
Behold, the heavens and the earth are; they proclaim that they were
created; for they change and vary. Whereas whatsoever hath not been made,
and yet is, hath nothing in it, which before it had not; and this it is, to
change and vary. They proclaim also, that they made not themselves;
"therefore we are, because we have been made; we were not therefore,
before we were, so as to make ourselves." Now the evidence of the thing, is
the voice of the speakers. Thou therefore, Lord, madest them; who art
beautiful, for they are beautiful; who art good, for they are good; who art,
for they are; yet are they not beautiful nor good, nor are they, as Thou their
Creator art; compared with Whom, they are neither beautiful, nor good, nor
are. This we know, thanks be to Thee. And our knowledge, compared with
Thy knowledge, is ignorance.
But how didst Thou make the heaven and the earth? and what the engine
of Thy so mighty fabric? For it was not as a human artificer, forming one
body from another, according to the discretion of his mind, which can in
some way invest with such a form, as it seeth in itself by its inward eye.

And whence should he be able to do this, unless Thou hadst made that
mind? and he invests with a form what already existeth, and hath a being, as
clay, or stone, or wood, or gold, or the like. And whence should they be,
hadst not Thou appointed them? Thou madest the artificer his body, Thou
the mind commanding the limbs, Thou the matter whereof he makes any
thing; Thou the apprehension whereby to take in his art, and see within
what he doth without; Thou the sense of his body, whereby, as by an
interpreter, he may from mind to matter, convey that which he doth, and
report to his mind what is done; that it within may consult the truth, which
presideth over itself, whether it be well done or no. All these praise Thee,
the Creator of all. But how dost Thou make them? how, O God, didst Thou
make heaven and earth? Verily, neither in the heaven, nor in the earth, didst
Thou make heaven and earth; nor in the air, or waters, seeing these also
belong to the heaven and the earth; nor in the whole world didst Thou make
the whole world; because there was no place where to make it, before it was
made, that it might be. Nor didst Thou hold any thing in Thy hand, whereof
to make heaven and earth. For whence shouldest Thou have this, which
Thou hadst not made, thereof to make any thing? For what is, but because
Thou art? Therefore Thou spokest, and they were made, and in Thy Word
Thou madest them.
But how didst Thou speak? In the way that the voice came out of the
cloud, saying, This is my beloved Son? For that voice passed by and passed
away, began and ended; the syllables sounded and passed away, the second
after the first, the third after the second, and so forth in order, until the last
after the rest, and silence after the last. Whence it is abundantly clear and
plain that the motion of a creature expressed it, itself temporal, serving Thy
eternal will. And these Thy words, created for a time, the outward ear
reported to the intelligent soul, whose inward ear lay listening to Thy
Eternal Word. But she compared these words sounding in time, with that
Thy Eternal Word in silence, and said "It is different, far different. These
words are far beneath me, nor are they, because they flee and pass away; but
the Word of my Lord abideth above me for ever." If then in sounding and
passing words Thou saidst that heaven and earth should be made, and so
madest heaven and earth, there was a corporeal creature before heaven and
earth, by whose motions in time that voice might take his course in time.
But there was nought corporeal before heaven and earth; or if there were,
surely Thou hadst, without such a passing voice, created that, whereof to

make this passing voice, by which to say, Let the heaven and the earth be
made. For whatsoever that were, whereof such a voice were made, unless
by Thee it were made, it could not be at all. By what Word then didst Thou
speak, that a body might be made, whereby these words again might be
made?
Thou callest us then to understand the Word, God, with Thee God, Which
is spoken eternally, and by It are all things spoken eternally. For what was
spoken was not spoken successively, one thing concluded that the next
might be spoken, but all things together and eternally. Else have we time
and change; and not a true eternity nor true immortality. This I know, O my
God, and give thanks. I know, I confess to Thee, O Lord, and with me there
knows and blesses Thee, whoso is not unthankful to assure Truth. We know,
Lord, we know; since inasmuch as anything is not which was, and is, which
was not, so far forth it dieth and ariseth. Nothing then of Thy Word doth
give place or replace, because It is truly immortal and eternal. And therefore
unto the Word coeternal with Thee Thou dost at once and eternally say all
that Thou dost say; and whatever Thou sayest shall be made is made; nor
dost Thou make, otherwise than by saying; and yet are not all things made
together, or everlasting, which Thou makest by saying.
Why, I beseech Thee, O Lord my God? I see it in a way; but how to
express it, I know not, unless it be, that whatsoever begins to be, and leaves
off to be, begins then, and leaves off then, when in Thy eternal Reason it is
known, that it ought to begin or leave off; in which Reason nothing
beginneth or leaveth off. This is Thy Word, which is also "the Beginning,
because also It speaketh unto us." Thus in the Gospel He speaketh through
the flesh; and this sounded outwardly in the ears of men; that it might be
believed and sought inwardly, and found in the eternal Verity; where the
good and only Master teacheth all His disciples. There, Lord, hear I Thy
voice speaking unto me; because He speaketh us, who teacheth us; but He
that teacheth us not, though He speaketh, to us He speaketh not. Who now
teacheth us, but the unchangeable Truth? for even when we are admonished
through a changeable creature; we are but led to the unchangeable Truth;
where we learn truly, while we stand and hear Him, and rejoice greatly
because of the Bridegroom's voice, restoring us to Him, from Whom we
are. And therefore the Beginning, because unless It abided, there should not,
when we went astray, be whither to return. But when we return from error,

it is through knowing; and that we may know, He teacheth us, because He is
the Beginning, and speaking unto us.
In this Beginning, O God, hast Thou made heaven and earth, in Thy
Word, in Thy Son, in Thy Power, in Thy Wisdom, in Thy Truth; wondrously
speaking, and wondrously making. Who shall comprehend? Who declare it?
What is that which gleams through me, and strikes my heart without hurting
it; and I shudder and kindle? I shudder, inasmuch as I am unlike it; I kindle,
inasmuch as I am like it. It is Wisdom, Wisdom's self which gleameth
through me; severing my cloudiness which yet again mantles over me,
fainting from it, through the darkness which for my punishment gathers
upon me. For my strength is brought down in need, so that I cannot support
my blessings, till Thou, Lord, Who hast been gracious to all mine iniquities,
shalt heal all my infirmities. For Thou shalt also redeem my life from
corruption, and crown me with loving kindness and tender mercies, and
shalt satisfy my desire with good things, because my youth shall be
renewed like an eagle's. For in hope we are saved, wherefore we through
patience wait for Thy promises. Let him that is able, hear Thee inwardly
discoursing out of Thy oracle: I will boldly cry out, How wonderful are Thy
works, O Lord, in Wisdom hast Thou made them all; and this Wisdom is the
Beginning, and in that Beginning didst Thou make heaven and earth.
Lo, are they not full of their old leaven, who say to us, "What was God
doing before He made heaven and earth? For if (say they) He were
unemployed and wrought not, why does He not also henceforth, and for
ever, as He did heretofore? For did any new motion arise in God, and a new
will to make a creature, which He had never before made, how then would
that be a true eternity, where there ariseth a will, which was not? For the
will of God is not a creature, but before the creature; seeing nothing could
be created, unless the will of the Creator had preceded. The will of God
then belongeth to His very Substance. And if aught have arisen in God's
Substance, which before was not, that Substance cannot be truly called
eternal. But if the will of God has been from eternity that the creature
should be, why was not the creature also from eternity?"
Who speak thus, do not yet understand Thee, O Wisdom of God, Light of
souls, understand not yet how the things be made, which by Thee, and in
Thee are made: yet they strive to comprehend things eternal, whilst their
heart fluttereth between the motions of things past and to come, and is still

unstable. Who shall hold it, and fix it, that it be settled awhile, and awhile
catch the glory of that ever-fixed Eternity, and compare it with the times
which are never fixed, and see that it cannot be compared; and that a long
time cannot become long, but out of many motions passing by, which
cannot be prolonged altogether; but that in the Eternal nothing passeth, but
the whole is present; whereas no time is all at once present: and that all time
past, is driven on by time to come, and all to come followeth upon the past;
and all past and to come, is created, and flows out of that which is ever
present? Who shall hold the heart of man, that it may stand still, and see
how eternity ever still-standing, neither past nor to come, uttereth the times
past and to come? Can my hand do this, or the hand of my mouth by speech
bring about a thing so great?
See, I answer him that asketh, "What did God before He made heaven
and earth?" I answer not as one is said to have done merrily (eluding the
pressure of the question), "He was preparing hell (saith he) for pryers into
mysteries." It is one thing to answer enquiries, another to make sport of
enquirers. So I answer not; for rather had I answer, "I know not," what I
know not, than so as to raise a laugh at him who asketh deep things and
gain praise for one who answereth false things. But I say that Thou, our
God, art the Creator of every creature: and if by the name "heaven and
earth," every creature be understood; I boldly say, "that before God made
heaven and earth, He did not make any thing." For if He made, what did He
make but a creature? And would I knew whatsoever I desire to know to my
profit, as I know, that no creature was made, before there was made any
creature.
But if any excursive brain rove over the images of forepassed times, and
wonder that Thou the God Almighty and All-creating and All-supporting,
Maker of heaven and earth, didst for innumerable ages forbear from so
great a work, before Thou wouldest make it; let him awake and consider,
that he wonders at false conceits. For whence could innumerable ages pass
by, which Thou madest not, Thou the Author and Creator of all ages? or
what times should there be, which were not made by Thee? or how should
they pass by, if they never were? Seeing then Thou art the Creator of all
times, if any time was before Thou madest heaven and earth, why say they
that Thou didst forego working? For that very time didst Thou make, nor
could times pass by, before Thou madest those times. But if before heaven

and earth there was no time, why is it demanded, what Thou then didst? For
there was no "then," when there was no time.
Nor dost Thou by time, precede time: else shouldest Thou not precede all
times. But Thou precedest all things past, by the sublimity of an ever-
present eternity; and surpassest all future because they are future, and when
they come, they shall be past; but Thou art the Same, and Thy years fail not.
Thy years neither come nor go; whereas ours both come and go, that they
all may come. Thy years stand together, because they do stand; nor are
departing thrust out by coming years, for they pass not away; but ours shall
all be, when they shall no more be. Thy years are one day; and Thy day is
not daily, but To-day, seeing Thy To-day gives not place unto tomorrow, for
neither doth it replace yesterday. Thy To-day, is Eternity; therefore didst
Thou beget The Coeternal, to whom Thou saidst, This day have I begotten
Thee. Thou hast made all things; and before all times Thou art: neither in
any time was time not.
At no time then hadst Thou not made any thing, because time itself Thou
madest. And no times are coeternal with Thee, because Thou abidest; but if
they abode, they should not be times. For what is time? Who can readily
and briefly explain this? Who can even in thought comprehend it, so as to
utter a word about it? But what in discourse do we mention more familiarly
and knowingly, than time? And, we understand, when we speak of it; we
understand also, when we hear it spoken of by another. What then is time?
If no one asks me, I know: if I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know
not: yet I say boldly that I know, that if nothing passed away, time past were
not; and if nothing were coming, a time to come were not; and if nothing
were, time present were not. Those two times then, past and to come, how
are they, seeing the past now is not, and that to come is not yet? But the
present, should it always be present, and never pass into time past, verily it
should not be time, but eternity. If time present (if it is to be time) only
cometh into existence, because it passeth into time past, how can we say
that either this is, whose cause of being is, that it shall not be; so, namely,
that we cannot truly say that time is, but because it is tending not to be?
And yet we say, "a long time" and "a short time"; still, only of time past
or to come. A long time past (for example) we call an hundred years since;
and a long time to come, an hundred years hence. But a short time past, we
call (suppose) often days since; and a short time to come, often days hence.

But in what sense is that long or short, which is not? For the past, is not
now; and the future, is not yet. Let us not then say, "it is long"; but of the
past, "it hath been long"; and of the future, "it will be long." O my Lord, my
Light, shall not here also Thy Truth mock at man? For that past time which
was long, was it long when it was now past, or when it was yet present? For
then might it be long, when there was, what could be long; but when past, it
was no longer; wherefore neither could that be long, which was not at all.
Let us not then say, "time past hath been long": for we shall not find, what
hath been long, seeing that since it was past, it is no more, but let us say,
"that present time was long"; because, when it was present, it was long. For
it had not yet passed away, so as not to be; and therefore there was, what
could be long; but after it was past, that ceased also to be long, which
ceased to be.
Let us see then, thou soul of man, whether present time can be long: for
to thee it is given to feel and to measure length of time. What wilt thou
answer me? Are an hundred years, when present, a long time? See first,
whether an hundred years can be present. For if the first of these years be
now current, it is present, but the other ninety and nine are to come, and
therefore are not yet, but if the second year be current, one is now past,
another present, the rest to come. And so if we assume any middle year of
this hundred to be present, all before it, are past; all after it, to come;
wherefore an hundred years cannot be present. But see at least whether that
one which is now current, itself is present; for if the current month be its
first, the rest are to come; if the second, the first is already past, and the rest
are not yet. Therefore, neither is the year now current present; and if not
present as a whole, then is not the year present. For twelve months are a
year; of which whatever by the current month is present; the rest past, or to
come. Although neither is that current month present; but one day only; the
rest being to come, if it be the first; past, if the last; if any of the middle,
then amid past and to come.
See how the present time, which alone we found could be called long, is
abridged to the length scarce of one day. But let us examine that also;
because neither is one day present as a whole. For it is made up of four and
twenty hours of night and day: of which, the first hath the rest to come; the
last hath them past; and any of the middle hath those before it past, those
behind it to come. Yea, that one hour passeth away in flying particles.
Whatsoever of it hath flown away, is past; whatsoever remaineth, is to

come. If an instant of time be conceived, which cannot be divided into the
smallest particles of moments, that alone is it, which may be called present.
Which yet flies with such speed from future to past, as not to be lengthened
out with the least stay. For if it be, it is divided into past and future. The
present hath no space. Where then is the time, which we may call long? Is it
to come? Of it we do not say, "it is long"; because it is not yet, so as to be
long; but we say, "it will be long." When therefore will it be? For if even
then, when it is yet to come, it shall not be long (because what can be long,
as yet is not), and so it shall then be long, when from future which as yet is
not, it shall begin now to be, and have become present, that so there should
exist what may be long; then does time present cry out in the words above,
that it cannot be long.
And yet, Lord, we perceive intervals of times, and compare them, and
say, some are shorter, and others longer. We measure also, how much longer
or shorter this time is than that; and we answer, "This is double, or treble;
and that, but once, or only just so much as that." But we measure times as
they are passing, by perceiving them; but past, which now are not, or the
future, which are not yet, who can measure? unless a man shall presume to
say, that can be measured, which is not. When then time is passing, it may
be perceived and measured; but when it is past, it cannot, because it is not.
I ask, Father, I affirm not: O my God, rule and guide me. "Who will tell
me that there are not three times (as we learned when boys, and taught
boys), past, present, and future; but present only, because those two are not?
Or are they also; and when from future it becometh present, doth it come
out of some secret place; and so, when retiring, from present it becometh
past? For where did they, who foretold things to come, see them, if as yet
they be not? For that which is not, cannot be seen. And they who relate
things past, could not relate them, if in mind they did not discern them, and
if they were not, they could no way be discerned. Things then past and to
come, are."
Permit me, Lord, to seek further. O my hope, let not my purpose be
confounded. For if times past and to come be, I would know where they be.
Which yet if I cannot, yet I know, wherever they be, they are not there as
future, or past, but present. For if there also they be future, they are not yet
there; if there also they be past, they are no longer there. Wheresoever then
is whatsoever is, it is only as present. Although when past facts are related,

there are drawn out of the memory, not the things themselves which are
past, but words which, conceived by the images of the things, they, in
passing, have through the senses left as traces in the mind. Thus my
childhood, which now is not, is in time past, which now is not: but now
when I recall its image, and tell of it, I behold it in the present, because it is
still in my memory. Whether there be a like cause of foretelling things to
come also; that of things which as yet are not, the images may be perceived
before, already existing, I confess, O my God, I know not. This indeed I
know, that we generally think before on our future actions, and that that
forethinking is present, but the action whereof we forethink is not yet,
because it is to come. Which, when we have set upon, and have begun to do
what we were forethinking, then shall that action be; because then it is no
longer future, but present.
Which way soever then this secret fore-perceiving of things to come be;
that only can be seen, which is. But what now is, is not future, but present.
When then things to come are said to be seen, it is not themselves which as
yet are not (that is, which are to be), but their causes perchance or signs are
seen, which already are. Therefore they are not future but present to those
who now see that, from which the future, being foreconceived in the mind,
is foretold. Which fore-conceptions again now are; and those who foretell
those things, do behold the conceptions present before them. Let now the
numerous variety of things furnish me some example. I behold the day-
break, I foreshow, that the sun, is about to rise. What I behold, is present;
what I foresignify, to come; not the sun, which already is; but the sun-
rising, which is not yet. And yet did I not in my mind imagine the sun-rising
itself (as now while I speak of it), I could not foretell it. But neither is that
day-break which I discern in the sky, the sun-rising, although it goes before
it; nor that imagination of my mind; which two are seen now present, that
the other which is to be may be foretold. Future things then are not yet: and
if they be not yet, they are not: and if they are not, they cannot be seen; yet
foretold they may be from things present, which are already, and are seen.
Thou then, Ruler of Thy creation, by what way dost Thou teach souls
things to come? For Thou didst teach Thy Prophets. By what way dost
Thou, to whom nothing is to come, teach things to come; or rather of the
future, dost teach things present? For, what is not, neither can it be taught.
Too far is this way of my ken: it is too mighty for me, I cannot attain unto

it; but from Thee I can, when Thou shalt vouchsafe it, O sweet light of my
hidden eyes.
What now is clear and plain is, that neither things to come nor past are.
Nor is it properly said, "there be three times, past, present, and to come":
yet perchance it might be properly said, "there be three times; a present of
things past, a present of things present, and a present of things future." For
these three do exist in some sort, in the soul, but otherwhere do I not see
them; present of things past, memory; present of things present, sight;
present of things future, expectation. If thus we be permitted to speak, I see
three times, and I confess there are three. Let it be said too, "there be three
times, past, present, and to come": in our incorrect way. See, I object not,
nor gainsay, nor find fault, if what is so said be but understood, that neither
what is to be, now is, nor what is past. For but few things are there, which
we speak properly, most things improperly; still the things intended are
understood.
I said then even now, we measure times as they pass, in order to be able
to say, this time is twice so much as that one; or, this is just so much as that;
and so of any other parts of time, which be measurable. Wherefore, as I
said, we measure times as they pass. And if any should ask me, "How
knowest thou?" I might answer, "I know, that we do measure, nor can we
measure things that are not; and things past and to come, are not." But time
present how do we measure, seeing it hath no space? It is measured while
passing, but when it shall have passed, it is not measured; for there will be
nothing to be measured. But whence, by what way, and whither passes it
while it is a measuring? whence, but from the future? Which way, but
through the present? whither, but into the past? From that therefore, which
is not yet, through that, which hath no space, into that, which now is not.
Yet what do we measure, if not time in some space? For we do not say,
single, and double, and triple, and equal, or any other like way that we
speak of time, except of spaces of times. In what space then do we measure
time passing? In the future, whence it passeth through? But what is not yet,
we measure not. Or in the present, by which it passes? but no space, we do
not measure: or in the past, to which it passes? But neither do we measure
that, which now is not.
My soul is on fire to know this most intricate enigma. Shut it not up, O
Lord my God, good Father; through Christ I beseech Thee, do not shut up

these usual, yet hidden things, from my desire, that it be hindered from
piercing into them; but let them dawn through Thy enlightening mercy, O
Lord. Whom shall I enquire of concerning these things? and to whom shall I
more fruitfully confess my ignorance, than to Thee, to Whom these my
studies, so vehemently kindled toward Thy Scriptures, are not troublesome?
Give what I love; for I do love, and this hast Thou given me. Give, Father,
Who truly knowest to give good gifts unto Thy children. Give, because I
have taken upon me to know, and trouble is before me until Thou openest it.
By Christ I beseech Thee, in His Name, Holy of holies, let no man disturb
me. For I believed, and therefore do I speak. This is my hope, for this do I
live, that I may contemplate the delights of the Lord. Behold, Thou hast
made my days old, and they pass away, and how, I know not. And we talk
of time, and time, and times, and times, "How long time is it since he said
this"; "how long time since he did this"; and "how long time since I saw
that"; and "this syllable hath double time to that single short syllable."
These words we speak, and these we hear, and are understood, and
understand. Most manifest and ordinary they are, and the self-same things
again are but too deeply hidden, and the discovery of them were new.
I heard once from a learned man, that the motions of the sun, moon, and
stars, constituted time, and I assented not. For why should not the motions
of all bodies rather be times? Or, if the lights of heaven should cease, and a
potter's wheel run round, should there be no time by which we might
measure those whirlings, and say, that either it moved with equal pauses, or
if it turned sometimes slower, otherwhiles quicker, that some rounds were
longer, other shorter? Or, while we were saying this, should we not also be
speaking in time? Or, should there in our words be some syllables short,
others long, but because those sounded in a shorter time, these in a longer?
God, grant to men to see in a small thing notices common to things great
and small. The stars and lights of heaven, are also for signs, and for seasons,
and for years, and for days; they are; yet neither should I say, that the going
round of that wooden wheel was a day, nor yet he, that it was therefore no
time.
I desire to know the force and nature of time, by which we measure the
motions of bodies, and say (for example) this motion is twice as long as
that. For I ask, Seeing "day" denotes not the stay only of the sun upon the
earth (according to which day is one thing, night another); but also its
whole circuit from east to east again; according to which we say, "there

passed so many days," the night being included when we say, "so many
days," and the nights not reckoned apart;—seeing then a day is completed
by the motion of the sun and by his circuit from east to east again, I ask,
does the motion alone make the day, or the stay in which that motion is
completed, or both? For if the first be the day; then should we have a day,
although the sun should finish that course in so small a space of time, as
one hour comes to. If the second, then should not that make a day, if
between one sun-rise and another there were but so short a stay, as one hour
comes to; but the sun must go four and twenty times about, to complete one
day. If both, then neither could that be called a day; if the sun should run his
whole round in the space of one hour; nor that, if, while the sun stood still,
so much time should overpass, as the sun usually makes his whole course
in, from morning to morning. I will not therefore now ask, what that is
which is called day; but, what time is, whereby we, measuring the circuit of
the sun, should say that it was finished in half the time it was wont, if so be
it was finished in so small a space as twelve hours; and comparing both
times, should call this a single time, that a double time; even supposing the
sun to run his round from east to east, sometimes in that single, sometimes
in that double time. Let no man then tell me, that the motions of the
heavenly bodies constitute times, because, when at the prayer of one, the
sun had stood still, till he could achieve his victorious battle, the sun stood
still, but time went on. For in its own allotted space of time was that battle
waged and ended. I perceive time then to be a certain extension. But do I
perceive it, or seem to perceive it? Thou, Light and Truth, wilt show me.
Dost Thou bid me assent, if any define time to be "motion of a body?"
Thou dost not bid me. For that no body is moved, but in time, I hear; this
Thou sayest; but that the motion of a body is time, I hear not; Thou sayest it
not. For when a body is moved, I by time measure, how long it moveth,
from the time it began to move until it left off? And if I did not see whence
it began; and it continue to move so that I see not when it ends, I cannot
measure, save perchance from the time I began, until I cease to see. And if I
look long, I can only pronounce it to be a long time, but not how long;
because when we say "how long," we do it by comparison; as, "this is as
long as that," or "twice so long as that," or the like. But when we can mark
the distances of the places, whence and whither goeth the body moved, or
his parts, if it moved as in a lathe, then can we say precisely, in how much
time the motion of that body or his part, from this place unto that, was

finished. Seeing therefore the motion of a body is one thing, that by which
we measure how long it is, another; who sees not, which of the two is rather
to be called time? For and if a body be sometimes moved, sometimes stands
still, then we measure, not his motion only, but his standing still too by
time; and we say, "it stood still, as much as it moved"; or "it stood still
twice or thrice so long as it moved"; or any other space which our
measuring hath either ascertained, or guessed; more or less, as we use to
say. Time then is not the motion of a body.
And I confess to Thee, O Lord, that I yet know not what time is, and
again I confess unto Thee, O Lord, that I know that I speak this in time, and
that having long spoken of time, that very "long" is not long, but by the
pause of time. How then know I this, seeing I know not what time is? or is
it perchance that I know not how to express what I know? Woe is me, that
do not even know, what I know not. Behold, O my God, before Thee I lie
not; but as I speak, so is my heart. Thou shalt light my candle; Thou, O
Lord my God, wilt enlighten my darkness.
Does not my soul most truly confess unto Thee, that I do measure times?
Do I then measure, O my God, and know not what I measure? I measure the
motion of a body in time; and the time itself do I not measure? Or could I
indeed measure the motion of a body how long it were, and in how long
space it could come from this place to that, without measuring the time in
which it is moved? This same time then, how do I measure? do we by a
shorter time measure a longer, as by the space of a cubit, the space of a
rood? for so indeed we seem by the space of a short syllable, to measure the
space of a long syllable, and to say that this is double the other. Thus
measure we the spaces of stanzas, by the spaces of the verses, and the
spaces of the verses, by the spaces of the feet, and the spaces of the feet, by
the spaces of the syllables, and the spaces of long, by the space of short
syllables; not measuring by pages (for then we measure spaces, not times);
but when we utter the words and they pass by, and we say "it is a long
stanza, because composed of so many verses; long verses, because
consisting of so many feet; long feet, because prolonged by so many
syllables; a long syllable because double to a short one." But neither do we
this way obtain any certain measure of time; because it may be, that a
shorter verse, pronounced more fully, may take up more time than a longer,
pronounced hurriedly. And so for a verse, a foot, a syllable. Whence it
seemed to me, that time is nothing else than protraction; but of what, I

know not; and I marvel, if it be not of the mind itself? For what, I beseech
Thee, O my God, do I measure, when I say, either indefinitely "this is a
longer time than that," or definitely "this is double that"? That I measure
time, I know; and yet I measure not time to come, for it is not yet; nor
present, because it is not protracted by any space; nor past, because it now
is not. What then do I measure? Times passing, not past? for so I said.
Courage, my mind, and press on mightily. God is our helper, He made us,
and not we ourselves. Press on where truth begins to dawn. Suppose, now,
the voice of a body begins to sound, and does sound, and sounds on, and
list, it ceases; it is silence now, and that voice is past, and is no more a
voice. Before it sounded, it was to come, and could not be measured,
because as yet it was not, and now it cannot, because it is no longer. Then
therefore while it sounded, it might; because there then was what might be
measured. But yet even then it was not at a stay; for it was passing on, and
passing away. Could it be measured the rather, for that? For while passing,
it was being extended into some space of time, so that it might be measured,
since the present hath no space. If therefore then it might, then, lo, suppose
another voice hath begun to sound, and still soundeth in one continued tenor
without any interruption; let us measure it while it sounds; seeing when it
hath left sounding, it will then be past, and nothing left to be measured; let
us measure it verily, and tell how much it is. But it sounds still, nor can it be
measured but from the instant it began in, unto the end it left in. For the
very space between is the thing we measure, namely, from some beginning
unto some end. Wherefore, a voice that is not yet ended, cannot be
measured, so that it may be said how long, or short it is; nor can it be called
equal to another, or double to a single, or the like. But when ended, it no
longer is. How may it then be measured? And yet we measure times; but yet
neither those which are not yet, nor those which no longer are, nor those
which are not lengthened out by some pause, nor those which have no
bounds. We measure neither times to come, nor past, nor present, nor
passing; and yet we do measure times.
"Deus Creator omnium," this verse of eight syllables alternates between
short and long syllables. The four short then, the first, third, fifth, and
seventh, are but single, in respect of the four long, the second, fourth, sixth,
and eighth. Every one of these to every one of those, hath a double time: I
pronounce them, report on them, and find it so, as one's plain sense
perceives. By plain sense then, I measure a long syllable by a short, and I

sensibly find it to have twice so much; but when one sounds after the other,
if the former be short, the latter long, how shall I detain the short one, and
how, measuring, shall I apply it to the long, that I may find this to have
twice so much; seeing the long does not begin to sound, unless the short
leaves sounding? And that very long one do I measure as present, seeing I
measure it not till it be ended? Now his ending is his passing away. What
then is it I measure? where is the short syllable by which I measure? where
the long which I measure? Both have sounded, have flown, passed away,
are no more; and yet I measure, and confidently answer (so far as is
presumed on a practised sense) that as to space of time this syllable is but
single, that double. And yet I could not do this, unless they were already
past and ended. It is not then themselves, which now are not, that I measure,
but something in my memory, which there remains fixed.
It is in thee, my mind, that I measure times. Interrupt me not, that is,
interrupt not thyself with the tumults of thy impressions. In thee I measure
times; the impression, which things as they pass by cause in thee, remains
even when they are gone; this it is which still present, I measure, not the
things which pass by to make this impression. This I measure, when I
measure times. Either then this is time, or I do not measure times. What
when we measure silence, and say that this silence hath held as long time as
did that voice? do we not stretch out our thought to the measure of a voice,
as if it sounded, that so we may be able to report of the intervals of silence
in a given space of time? For though both voice and tongue be still, yet in
thought we go over poems, and verses, and any other discourse, or
dimensions of motions, and report as to the spaces of times, how much this
is in respect of that, no otherwise than if vocally we did pronounce them. If
a man would utter a lengthened sound, and had settled in thought how long
it should be, he hath in silence already gone through a space of time, and
committing it to memory, begins to utter that speech, which sounds on, until
it be brought unto the end proposed. Yea it hath sounded, and will sound;
for so much of it as is finished, hath sounded already, and the rest will
sound. And thus passeth it on, until the present intent conveys over the
future into the past; the past increasing by the diminution of the future, until
by the consumption of the future, all is past.
But how is that future diminished or consumed, which as yet is not? or
how that past increased, which is now no longer, save that in the mind
which enacteth this, there be three things done? For it expects, it considers,

it remembers; that so that which it expecteth, through that which it
considereth, passeth into that which it remembereth. Who therefore denieth,
that things to come are not as yet? and yet, there is in the mind an
expectation of things to come. And who denies past things to be now no
longer? and yet is there still in the mind a memory of things past. And who
denieth the present time hath no space, because it passeth away in a
moment? and yet our consideration continueth, through which that which
shall be present proceedeth to become absent. It is not then future time, that
is long, for as yet it is not: but a long future, is "a long expectation of the
future," nor is it time past, which now is not, that is long; but a long past, is
"a long memory of the past."
I am about to repeat a Psalm that I know. Before I begin, my expectation
is extended over the whole; but when I have begun, how much soever of it I
shall separate off into the past, is extended along my memory; thus the life
of this action of mine is divided between my memory as to what I have
repeated, and expectation as to what I am about to repeat; but
"consideration" is present with me, that through it what was future, may be
conveyed over, so as to become past. Which the more it is done again and
again, so much the more the expectation being shortened, is the memory
enlarged: till the whole expectation be at length exhausted, when that whole
action being ended, shall have passed into memory. And this which takes
place in the whole Psalm, the same takes place in each several portion of it,
and each several syllable; the same holds in that longer action, whereof this
Psalm may be part; the same holds in the whole life of man, whereof all the
actions of man are parts; the same holds through the whole age of the sons
of men, whereof all the lives of men are parts.
But because Thy loving-kindness is better than all lives, behold, my life
is but a distraction, and Thy right hand upheld me, in my Lord the Son of
man, the Mediator betwixt Thee, The One, and us many, many also through
our manifold distractions amid many things, that by Him I may apprehend
in Whom I have been apprehended, and may be re-collected from my old
conversation, to follow The One, forgetting what is behind, and not
distended but extended, not to things which shall be and shall pass away,
but to those things which are before, not distractedly but intently, I follow
on for the prize of my heavenly calling, where I may hear the voice of Thy
praise, and contemplate Thy delights, neither to come, nor to pass away. But
now are my years spent in mourning. And Thou, O Lord, art my comfort,

my Father everlasting, but I have been severed amid times, whose order I
know not; and my thoughts, even the inmost bowels of my soul, are rent
and mangled with tumultuous varieties, until I flow together into Thee,
purified and molten by the fire of Thy love.
And now will I stand, and become firm in Thee, in my mould, Thy truth;
nor will I endure the questions of men, who by a penal disease thirst for
more than they can contain, and say, "what did God before He made heaven
and earth?" Or, "How came it into His mind to make any thing, having
never before made any thing?" Give them, O Lord, well to bethink
themselves what they say, and to find, that "never" cannot be predicated,
when "time" is not. This then that He is said "never to have made"; what
else is it to say, than "in 'no time' to have made?" Let them see therefore,
that time cannot be without created being, and cease to speak that vanity.
May they also be extended towards those things which are before; and
understand Thee before all times, the eternal Creator of all times, and that
no times be coeternal with Thee, nor any creature, even if there be any
creature before all times.
O Lord my God, what a depth is that recess of Thy mysteries, and how
far from it have the consequences of my transgressions cast me! Heal mine
eyes, that I may share the joy of Thy light. Certainly, if there be mind gifted
with such vast knowledge and foreknowledge, as to know all things past
and to come, as I know one well-known Psalm, truly that mind is passing
wonderful, and fearfully amazing; in that nothing past, nothing to come in
after-ages, is any more hidden from him, than when I sung that Psalm, was
hidden from me what, and how much of it had passed away from the
beginning, what, and how much there remained unto the end. But far be it
that Thou the Creator of the Universe, the Creator of souls and bodies, far
be it, that Thou shouldest in such wise know all things past and to come.
Far, far more wonderfully, and far more mysteriously, dost Thou know
them. For not, as the feelings of one who singeth what he knoweth, or
heareth some well-known song, are through expectation of the words to
come, and the remembering of those that are past, varied, and his senses
divided,—not so doth any thing happen unto Thee, unchangeably eternal,
that is, the eternal Creator of minds. Like then as Thou in the Beginning
knewest the heaven and the earth, without any variety of Thy knowledge, so
madest Thou in the Beginning heaven and earth, without any distraction of
Thy action. Whoso understandeth, let him confess unto Thee; and whoso

understandeth not, let him confess unto Thee. Oh how high art Thou, and
yet the humble in heart are Thy dwelling-place; for Thou raisest up those
that are bowed down, and they fall not, whose elevation Thou art.

BOOK XII

My heart, O Lord, touched with the words of Thy Holy Scripture, is
much busied, amid this poverty of my life. And therefore most times, is the
poverty of human understanding copious in words, because enquiring hath
more to say than discovering, and demanding is longer than obtaining, and
our hand that knocks, hath more work to do, than our hand that receives. We
hold the promise, who shall make it null? If God be for us, who can be
against us? Ask, and ye shall have; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that
seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, shall it be opened. These be
Thine own promises: and who need fear to be deceived, when the Truth
promiseth?
The lowliness of my tongue confesseth unto Thy Highness, that Thou
madest heaven and earth; this heaven which I see, and this earth that I tread
upon, whence is this earth that I bear about me; Thou madest it. But where
is that heaven of heavens, O Lord, which we hear of in the words of the
Psalm. The heaven of heavens are the Lord's; but the earth hath He given to
the children of men? Where is that heaven which we see not, to which all
this which we see is earth? For this corporeal whole, not being wholly every
where, hath in such wise received its portion of beauty in these lower parts,
whereof the lowest is this our earth; but to that heaven of heavens, even the
heaven of our earth, is but earth: yea both these great bodies, may not
absurdly be called earth, to that unknown heaven, which is the Lord's, not
the sons' of men.
And now this earth was invisible and without form, and there was I know
not what depth of abyss, upon which there was no light, because it had no
shape. Therefore didst Thou command it to be written, that darkness was
upon the face of the deep; what else than the absence of light? For had there
been light, where should it have been but by being over all, aloft, and
enlightening? Where then light was not, what was the presence of darkness,
but the absence of light? Darkness therefore was upon it, because light was

not upon it; as where sound is not, there is silence. And what is it to have
silence there, but to have no sound there? Hast not Thou, O Lord, taught his
soul, which confesseth unto Thee? Hast not Thou taught me, Lord, that
before Thou formedst and diversifiedst this formless matter, there was
nothing, neither colour, nor figure, nor body, nor spirit? and yet not
altogether nothing; for there was a certain formlessness, without any beauty.
How then should it be called, that it might be in some measure conveyed
to those of duller mind, but by some ordinary word? And what, among all
parts of the world can be found nearer to an absolute formlessness, than
earth and deep? For, occupying the lowest stage, they are less beautiful than
the other higher parts are, transparent all and shining. Wherefore then may I
not conceive the formlessness of matter (which Thou hadst created without
beauty, whereof to make this beautiful world) to be suitably intimated unto
men, by the name of earth invisible and without form.
So that when thought seeketh what the sense may conceive under this,
and saith to itself, "It is no intellectual form, as life, or justice; because it is
the matter of bodies; nor object of sense, because being invisible, and
without form, there was in it no object of sight or sense";—while man's
thought thus saith to itself, it may endeavour either to know it, by being
ignorant of it; or to be ignorant, by knowing it.
But I, Lord, if I would, by my tongue and my pen, confess unto Thee the
whole, whatever Thyself hath taught me of that matter,—the name whereof
hearing before, and not understanding, when they who understood it not,
told me of it, so I conceived of it as having innumerable forms and diverse,
and therefore did not conceive it at all, my mind tossed up and down foul
and horrible "forms" out of all order, but yet "forms" and I called it without
form not that it wanted all form, but because it had such as my mind would,
if presented to it, turn from, as unwonted and jarring, and human frailness
would be troubled at. And still that which I conceived, was without form,
not as being deprived of all form, but in comparison of more beautiful
forms; and true reason did persuade me, that I must utterly uncase it of all
remnants of form whatsoever, if I would conceive matter absolutely without
form; and I could not; for sooner could I imagine that not to be at all, which
should be deprived of all form, than conceive a thing betwixt form and
nothing, neither formed, nor nothing, a formless almost nothing. So my
mind gave over to question thereupon with my spirit, it being filled with the

images of formed bodies, and changing and varying them, as it willed; and I
bent myself to the bodies themselves, and looked more deeply into their
changeableness, by which they cease to be what they have been, and begin
to be what they were not; and this same shifting from form to form, I
suspected to be through a certain formless state, not through a mere
nothing; yet this I longed to know, not to suspect only.-If then my voice and
pen would confess unto Thee the whole, whatsoever knots Thou didst open
for me in this question, what reader would hold out to take in the whole?
Nor shall my heart for all this cease to give Thee honour, and a song of
praise, for those things which it is not able to express. For the
changeableness of changeable things, is itself capable of all those forms,
into which these changeable things are changed. And this changeableness,
what is it? Is it soul? Is it body? Is it that which constituteth soul or body?
Might one say, "a nothing something", an "is, is not," I would say, this were
it: and yet in some way was it even then, as being capable of receiving these
visible and compound figures.
But whence had it this degree of being, but from Thee, from Whom are
all things, so far forth as they are? But so much the further from Thee, as
the unliker Thee; for it is not farness of place. Thou therefore, Lord, Who
art not one in one place, and otherwise in another, but the Self-same, and
the Self-same, and the Self-same, Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty,
didst in the Beginning, which is of Thee, in Thy Wisdom, which was born
of Thine own Substance, create something, and that out of nothing. For
Thou createdst heaven and earth; not out of Thyself, for so should they have
been equal to Thine Only Begotten Son, and thereby to Thee also; whereas
no way were it right that aught should be equal to Thee, which was not of
Thee. And aught else besides Thee was there not, whereof Thou mightest
create them, O God, One Trinity, and Trine Unity; and therefore out of
nothing didst Thou create heaven and earth; a great thing, and a small thing;
for Thou art Almighty and Good, to make all things good, even the great
heaven, and the petty earth. Thou wert, and nothing was there besides, out
of which Thou createdst heaven and earth; things of two sorts; one near
Thee, the other near to nothing; one to which Thou alone shouldest be
superior; the other, to which nothing should be inferior.
But that heaven of heavens was for Thyself, O Lord; but the earth which
Thou gavest to the sons of men, to be seen and felt, was not such as we now
see and feel. For it was invisible, without form, and there was a deep, upon

which there was no light; or, darkness was above the deep, that is, more
than in the deep. Because this deep of waters, visible now, hath even in his
depths, a light proper for its nature; perceivable in whatever degree unto the
fishes, and creeping things in the bottom of it. But that whole deep was
almost nothing, because hitherto it was altogether without form; yet there
was already that which could be formed. For Thou, Lord, madest the world
of a matter without form, which out of nothing, Thou madest next to
nothing, thereof to make those great things, which we sons of men wonder
at. For very wonderful is this corporeal heaven; of which firmament
between water and water, the second day, after the creation of light, Thou
saidst, Let it be made, and it was made. Which firmament Thou calledst
heaven; the heaven, that is, to this earth and sea, which Thou madest the
third day, by giving a visible figure to the formless matter, which Thou
madest before all days. For already hadst Thou made both an heaven, before
all days; but that was the heaven of this heaven; because In the beginning
Thou hadst made heaven and earth. But this same earth which Thou madest
was formless matter, because it was invisible and without form, and
darkness was upon the deep, of which invisible earth and without form, of
which formlessness, of which almost nothing, Thou mightest make all these
things of which this changeable world consists, but subsists not; whose very
changeableness appears therein, that times can be observed and numbered
in it. For times are made by the alterations of things, while the figures, the
matter whereof is the invisible earth aforesaid, are varied and turned.
And therefore the Spirit, the Teacher of Thy servant, when It recounts
Thee to have In the Beginning created heaven and earth, speaks nothing of
times, nothing of days. For verily that heaven of heavens which Thou
createdst in the Beginning, is some intellectual creature, which, although no
ways coeternal unto Thee, the Trinity, yet partaketh of Thy eternity, and
doth through the sweetness of that most happy contemplation of Thyself,
strongly restrain its own changeableness; and without any fall since its first
creation, cleaving close unto Thee, is placed beyond all the rolling
vicissitude of times. Yea, neither is this very formlessness of the earth,
invisible, and without form, numbered among the days. For where no figure
nor order is, there does nothing come, or go; and where this is not, there
plainly are no days, nor any vicissitude of spaces of times.
O let the Light, the Truth, the Light of my heart, not mine own darkness,
speak unto me. I fell off into that, and became darkened; but even thence,

even thence I loved Thee. I went astray, and remembered Thee. I heard Thy
voice behind me, calling to me to return, and scarcely heard it, through the
tumultuousness of the enemies of peace. And now, behold, I return in
distress and panting after Thy fountain. Let no man forbid me! of this will I
drink, and so live. Let me not be mine own life; from myself I lived ill,
death was I to myself; and I revive in Thee. Do Thou speak unto me, do
Thou discourse unto me. I have believed Thy Books, and their words be
most full of mystery.
Already Thou hast told me with a strong voice, O Lord, in my inner ear,
that Thou art eternal, Who only hast immortality; since Thou canst not be
changed as to figure or motion, nor is Thy will altered by times: seeing no
will which varies is immortal. This is in Thy sight clear to me, and let it be
more and more cleared to me, I beseech Thee; and in the manifestation
thereof, let me with sobriety abide under Thy wings. Thou hast told me also
with a strong voice, O Lord, in my inner ear, that Thou hast made all
natures and substances, which are not what Thyself is, and yet are; and that
only is not from Thee, which is not, and the motion of the will from Thee
who art, unto that which in a less degree is, because such motion is
transgression and sin; and that no man's sin doth either hurt Thee, or disturb
the order of Thy government, first or last. This is in Thy sight clear unto
me, and let it be more and more cleared to me, I beseech Thee: and in the
manifestation thereof, let me with sobriety abide under Thy wings.
Thou hast told me also with a strong voice, in my inner ear, that neither is
that creature coeternal unto Thyself, whose happiness Thou only art, and
which with a most persevering purity, drawing its nourishment from Thee,
doth in no place and at no time put forth its natural mutability; and, Thyself
being ever present with it, unto Whom with its whole affection it keeps
itself, having neither future to expect, nor conveying into the past what it
remembereth, is neither altered by any change, nor distracted into any
times. O blessed creature, if such there be, for cleaving unto Thy
Blessedness; blest in Thee, its eternal Inhabitant and its Enlightener! Nor do
I find by what name I may the rather call the heaven of heavens which is
the Lord's, than Thine house, which contemplateth Thy delights without any
defection of going forth to another; one pure mind, most harmoniously one,
by that settled estate of peace of holy spirits, the citizens of Thy city in
heavenly places; far above those heavenly places that we see.

By this may the soul, whose pilgrimage is made long and far away, by
this may she understand, if she now thirsts for Thee, if her tears be now
become her bread, while they daily say unto her, Where is Thy God? if she
now seeks of Thee one thing, and desireth it, that she may dwell in Thy
house all the days of her life (and what is her life, but Thou? and what Thy
days, but Thy eternity, as Thy years which fail not, because Thou art ever
the same?); by this then may the soul that is able, understand how far Thou
art, above all times, eternal; seeing Thy house which at no time went into a
far country, although it be not coeternal with Thee, yet by continually and
unfailingly cleaving unto Thee, suffers no changeableness of times. This is
in Thy sight clear unto me, and let it be more and more cleared unto me, I
beseech Thee, and in the manifestation thereof, let me with sobriety abide
under Thy wings.
There is, behold, I know not what formlessness in those changes of these
last and lowest creatures; and who shall tell me (unless such a one as
through the emptiness of his own heart, wonders and tosses himself up and
down amid his own fancies?), who but such a one would tell me, that if all
figure be so wasted and consumed away, that there should only remain that
formlessness, through which the thing was changed and turned from one
figure to another, that that could exhibit the vicissitudes of times? For
plainly it could not, because, without the variety of motions, there are no
times: and no variety, where there is no figure.
These things considered, as much as Thou givest, O my God, as much as
Thou stirrest me up to knock, and as much as Thou openest to me knocking,
two things I find that Thou hast made, not within the compass of time,
neither of which is coeternal with Thee. One, which is so formed, that
without any ceasing of contemplation, without any interval of change,
though changeable, yet not changed, it may thoroughly enjoy Thy eternity
and unchangeableness; the other which was so formless, that it had not that,
which could be changed from one form into another, whether of motion, or
of repose, so as to become subject unto time. But this Thou didst not leave
thus formless, because before all days, Thou in the Beginning didst create
Heaven and Earth; the two things that I spake of. But the Earth was
invisible and without form, and darkness was upon the deep. In which
words, is the formlessness conveyed unto us (that such capacities may
hereby be drawn on by degrees, as are not able to conceive an utter
privation of all form, without yet coming to nothing), out of which another

Heaven might be created, together with a visible and well-formed earth: and
the waters diversly ordered, and whatsoever further is in the formation of
the world, recorded to have been, not without days, created; and that, as
being of such nature, that the successive changes of times may take place in
them, as being subject to appointed alterations of motions and of forms.
This then is what I conceive, O my God, when I hear Thy Scripture
saying, In the beginning God made Heaven and Earth: and the Earth was
invisible and without form, and darkness was upon the deep, and not
mentioning what day Thou createdst them; this is what I conceive, that
because of the Heaven of heavens,—that intellectual Heaven, whose
Intelligences know all at once, not in part, not darkly, not through a glass,
but as a whole, in manifestation, face to face; not, this thing now, and that
thing anon; but (as I said) know all at once, without any succession of
times;—and because of the earth invisible and without form, without any
succession of times, which succession presents "this thing now, that thing
anon"; because where is no form, there is no distinction of things:—it is,
then, on account of these two, a primitive formed, and a primitive formless;
the one, heaven but the Heaven of heaven, the other earth but the earth
invisible and without form; because of these two do I conceive, did Thy
Scripture say without mention of days, In the Beginning God created
Heaven and Earth. For forthwith it subjoined what earth it spake of; and
also, in that the Firmament is recorded to be created the second day, and
called Heaven, it conveys to us of which Heaven He before spake, without
mention of days.
Wondrous depth of Thy words! whose surface, behold! is before us,
inviting to little ones; yet are they a wondrous depth. O my God, a
wondrous depth! It is awful to look therein; an awfulness of honour, and a
trembling of love. The enemies thereof I hate vehemently; oh that Thou
wouldest slay them with Thy two-edged sword, that they might no longer
be enemies unto it: for so do I love to have them slain unto themselves, that
they may live unto Thee. But behold others not faultfinders, but extollers of
the book of Genesis; "The Spirit of God," say they, "Who by His servant
Moses wrote these things, would not have those words thus understood; He
would not have it understood, as thou sayest, but otherwise, as we say."
Unto Whom Thyself, O Thou God all, being judge, do I thus answer.

"Will you affirm that to be false, which with a strong voice Truth tells me
in my inner ear, concerning the Eternity of the Creator, that His substance is
no ways changed by time, nor His will separate from His substance?
Wherefore He willeth not one thing now, another anon, but once, and at
once, and always, He willeth all things that He willeth; not again and again,
nor now this, now that; nor willeth afterwards, what before He willed not,
nor willeth not, what before He willed; because such a will is and no
mutable thing is eternal: but our God is eternal. Again, what He tells me in
my inner ear, the expectation of things to come becomes sight, when they
are come, and this same sight becomes memory, when they be past. Now all
thought which thus varies is mutable; and no mutable thing is eternal: but
our God is eternal." These things I infer, and put together, and find that my
God, the eternal God, hath not upon any new will made any creature, nor
doth His knowledge admit of any thing transitory. "What will ye say then, O
ye gainsayers? Are these things false?" "No," they say; "What then? Is it
false, that every nature already formed, or matter capable of form, is not,
but from Him Who is supremely good, because He is supremely?" "Neither
do we deny this," say they. "What then? do you deny this, that there is a
certain sublime creature, with so chaste a love cleaving unto the true and
truly eternal God, that although not coeternal with Him, yet is it not
detached from Him, nor dissolved into the variety and vicissitude of times,
but reposeth in the most true contemplation of Him only?" Because Thou, O
God, unto him that loveth Thee so much as Thou commandest, dost show
Thyself, and sufficest him; and therefore doth he not decline from Thee, nor
toward himself. This is the house of God, not of earthly mould, nor of
celestial bulk corporeal but spiritual, and partaker of Thy eternity, because
without defection for ever. For Thou hast made it fast for ever and ever,
Thou hast given it a law which it shall not pass. Nor yet is it coeternal with
Thee, O God, because not without beginning; for it was made.
For although we find no time before it, for wisdom was created before all
things; not that Wisdom which is altogether equal and coeternal unto Thee,
our God, His Father, and by Whom all things were created, and in Whom,
as the Beginning, Thou createdst heaven and earth; but that wisdom which
is created, that is, the intellectual nature, which by contemplating the light,
is light. For this, though created, is also called wisdom. But what difference
there is betwixt the Light which enlighteneth, and which is enlightened, so
much is there betwixt the Wisdom that createth, and that created; as betwixt

the Righteousness which justifieth, and the righteousness which is made by
justification. For we also are called Thy righteousness; for so saith a certain
servant of Thine, That we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.
Therefore since a certain created wisdom was created before all things, the
rational and intellectual mind of that chaste city of Thine, our mother which
is above, and is free and eternal in the heavens (in what heavens, if not in
those that praise Thee, the Heaven of heavens? Because this is also the
Heaven of heavens for the Lord);—though we find no time before it
(because that which hath been created before all things, precedeth also the
creature of time), yet is the Eternity of the Creator Himself before it, from
Whom, being created, it took the beginning, not indeed of time (for time
itself was not yet), but of its creation.
Hence it is so of Thee, our God, as to be altogether other than Thou, and
not the Self-same: because though we find time neither before it, nor even
in it (it being meet ever to behold Thy face, nor is ever drawn away from it,
wherefore it is not varied by any change), yet is there in it a liability to
change, whence it would wax dark, and chill, but that by a strong affection
cleaving unto Thee, like perpetual noon, it shineth and gloweth from Thee.
O house most lightsome and delightsome! I have loved thy beauty, and the
place of the habitation of the glory of my Lord, thy builder and possessor.
Let my wayfaring sigh after thee, and I say to Him that made thee, let Him
take possession of me also in thee, seeing He hath made me likewise. I have
gone astray like a lost sheep: yet upon the shoulders of my Shepherd, thy
builder, hope I to be brought back to thee.
"What say ye to me, O ye gainsayers that I was speaking unto, who yet
believe Moses to have been the holy servant of God, and his books the
oracles of the Holy Ghost? Is not this house of God, not coeternal indeed
with God, yet after its measure, eternal in the heavens, when you seek for
changes of times in vain, because you will not find them? For that, to which
it is ever good to cleave fast to God, surpasses all extension, and all
revolving periods of time." "It is," say they. "What then of all that which my
heart loudly uttered unto my God, when inwardly it heard the voice of His
praise, what part thereof do you affirm to be false? Is it that the matter was
without form, in which because there was no form, there was no order? But
where no order was, there could be no vicissitude of times: and yet this
'almost nothing,' inasmuch as it was not altogether nothing, was from Him

certainly, from Whom is whatsoever is, in what degree soever it is." "This
also," say they, "do we not deny."
With these I now parley a little in Thy presence, O my God, who grant all
these things to be true, which Thy Truth whispers unto my soul. For those
who deny these things, let them bark and deafen themselves as much as
they please; I will essay to persuade them to quiet, and to open in them a
way for Thy word. But if they refuse, and repel me; I beseech, O my God,
be not Thou silent to me. Speak Thou truly in my heart; for only Thou so
speakest: and I will let them alone blowing upon the dust without, and
raising it up into their own eyes: and myself will enter my chamber, and
sing there a song of loves unto Thee; groaning with groanings unutterable,
in my wayfaring, and remembering Jerusalem, with heart lifted up towards
it, Jerusalem my country, Jerusalem my mother, and Thyself that rulest over
it, the Enlightener, Father, Guardian, Husband, the pure and strong delight,
and solid joy, and all good things unspeakable, yea all at once, because the
One Sovereign and true Good. Nor will I be turned away, until Thou gather
all that I am, from this dispersed and disordered estate, into the peace of
that our most dear mother, where the first-fruits of my spirit be already
(whence I am ascertained of these things), and Thou conform and confirm it
for ever, O my God, my Mercy. But those who do not affirm all these truths
to be false, who honour Thy holy Scripture, set forth by holy Moses,
placing it, as we, on the summit of authority to be followed, and do yet
contradict me in some thing, I answer thus; By Thyself judge, O our God,
between my Confessions and these men's contradictions.
For they say, "Though these things be true, yet did not Moses intend
those two, when, by revelation of the Spirit, he said, In the beginning God
created heaven and earth. He did not under the name of heaven, signify that
spiritual or intellectual creature which always beholds the face of God; nor
under the name of earth, that formless matter." "What then?" "That man of
God," say they, "meant as we say, this declared he by those words."
"What?" "By the name of heaven and earth would he first signify," say they,
"universally and compendiously, all this visible world; so as afterwards by
the enumeration of the several days, to arrange in detail, and, as it were,
piece by piece, all those things, which it pleased the Holy Ghost thus to
enounce. For such were that rude and carnal people to which he spake, that
he thought them fit to be entrusted with the knowledge of such works of
God only as were visible." They agree, however, that under the words earth

invisible and without form, and that darksome deep (out of which it is
subsequently shown, that all these visible things which we all know, were
made and arranged during those "days") may, not incongruously, be
understood of this formless first matter.
What now if another should say that "this same formlessness and
confusedness of matter, was for this reason first conveyed under the name
of heaven and earth, because out of it was this visible world with all those
natures which most manifestly appear in it, which is ofttimes called by the
name of heaven and earth, created and perfected?" What again if another
say that "invisible and visible nature is not indeed inappropriately called
heaven and earth; and so, that the universal creation, which God made in
His Wisdom, that is, in the Beginning, was comprehended under those two
words? Notwithstanding, since all things be made not of the substance of
God, but out of nothing (because they are not the same that God is, and
there is a mutable nature in them all, whether they abide, as doth the eternal
house of God, or be changed, as the soul and body of man are): therefore
the common matter of all things visible and invisible (as yet unformed
though capable of form), out of which was to be created both heaven and
earth (i.e., the invisible and visible creature when formed), was entitled by
the same names given to the earth invisible and without form and the
darkness upon the deep, but with this distinction, that by the earth invisible
and without form is understood corporeal matter, antecedent to its being
qualified by any form; and by the darkness upon the deep, spiritual matter,
before it underwent any restraint of its unlimited fluidness, or received any
light from Wisdom?"
It yet remains for a man to say, if he will, that "the already perfected and
formed natures, visible and invisible, are not signified under the name of
heaven and earth, when we read, In the beginning God made heaven and
earth, but that the yet unformed commencement of things, the stuff apt to
receive form and making, was called by these names, because therein were
confusedly contained, not as yet distinguished by their qualities and forms,
all those things which being now digested into order, are called Heaven and
Earth, the one being the spiritual, the other the corporeal, creation."
All which things being heard and well considered, I will not strive about
words: for that is profitable to nothing, but the subversion of the hearers.
But the law is good to edify, if a man use it lawfully: for that the end of it is

charity, out of a pure heart and good conscience, and faith unfeigned. And
well did our Master know, upon which two commandments He hung all the
Law and the Prophets. And what doth it prejudice me, O my God, Thou
light of my eyes in secret, zealously confessing these things, since divers
things may be understood under these words which yet are all true,—what,
I say, doth it prejudice me, if I think otherwise than another thinketh the
writer thought? All we readers verily strive to trace out and to understand
his meaning whom we read; and seeing we believe him to speak truly, we
dare not imagine him to have said any thing, which ourselves either know
or think to be false. While every man endeavours then to understand in the
Holy Scriptures, the same as the writer understood, what hurt is it, if a man
understand what Thou, the light of all true-speaking minds, dost show him
to be true, although he whom he reads, understood not this, seeing he also
understood a Truth, though not this truth?
For true it is, O Lord, that Thou madest heaven and earth; and it is true
too, that the Beginning is Thy Wisdom, in Which Thou createst all: and true
again, that this visible world hath for its greater part the heaven and the
earth, which briefly comprise all made and created natures. And true too,
that whatsoever is mutable, gives us to understand a certain want of form,
whereby it receiveth a form, or is changed, or turned. It is true, that that is
subject to no times, which so cleaveth to the unchangeable Form, as though
subject to change, never to be changed. It is true, that that formlessness
which is almost nothing, cannot be subject to the alteration of times. It is
true, that that whereof a thing is made, may by a certain mode of speech, be
called by the name of the thing made of it; whence that formlessness,
whereof heaven and earth were made, might be called heaven and earth. It
is true, that of things having form, there is not any nearer to having no form,
than the earth and the deep. It is true, that not only every created and
formed thing, but whatsoever is capable of being created and formed, Thou
madest, of Whom are all things. It is true, that whatsoever is formed out of
that which had no form, was unformed before it was formed.
Out of these truths, of which they doubt not whose inward eye Thou hast
enabled to see such things, and who unshakenly believe Thy servant Moses
to have spoken in the Spirit of truth;—of all these then, he taketh one, who
saith, In the Beginning God made the heaven and the earth; that is, "in His
Word coeternal with Himself, God made the intelligible and the sensible, or
the spiritual and the corporeal creature." He another, that saith, In the

Beginning God made heaven and earth; that is, "in His Word coeternal with
Himself, did God make the universal bulk of this corporeal world, together
with all those apparent and known creatures, which it containeth." He
another, that saith, In the Beginning God made heaven and earth; that is, "in
His Word coeternal with Himself, did God make the formless matter of
creatures spiritual and corporeal." He another, that saith, In the Beginning
God created heaven and earth; that is, "in His Word coeternal with Himself,
did God create the formless matter of the creature corporeal, wherein
heaven and earth lay as yet confused, which, being now distinguished and
formed, we at this day see in the bulk of this world." He another, who saith,
In the Beginning God made heaven and earth; that is, "in the very beginning
of creating and working, did God make that formless matter, confusedly
containing in itself both heaven and earth; out of which, being formed, do
they now stand out, and are apparent, with all that is in them."
And with regard to the understanding of the words following, out of all
those truths, he chooses one to himself, who saith, But the earth was
invisible, and without form, and darkness was upon the deep; that is, "that
corporeal thing that God made, was as yet a formless matter of corporeal
things, without order, without light." Another he who says, The earth was
invisible and without form, and darkness was upon the deep; that is, "this
all, which is called heaven and earth, was still a formless and darksome
matter, of which the corporeal heaven and the corporeal earth were to be
made, with all things in them, which are known to our corporeal senses."
Another he who says, The earth was invisible and without form, and
darkness was upon the deep; that is, "this all, which is called heaven and
earth, was still a formless and a darksome matter; out of which was to be
made, both that intelligible heaven, otherwhere called the Heaven of
heavens, and the earth, that is, the whole corporeal nature, under which
name is comprised this corporeal heaven also; in a word, out of which every
visible and invisible creature was to be created." Another he who says, The
earth was invisible and without form, and darkness was upon the deep, "the
Scripture did not call that formlessness by the name of heaven and earth;
but that formlessness, saith he, already was, which he called the earth
invisible without form, and darkness upon the deep; of which he had before
said, that God had made heaven and earth, namely, the spiritual and
corporeal creature." Another he who says, The earth was invisible and
without form, and darkness was upon the deep; that is, "there already was a

certain formless matter, of which the Scripture said before, that God made
heaven and earth; namely, the whole corporeal bulk of the world, divided
into two great parts, upper and lower, with all the common and known
creatures in them."
For should any attempt to dispute against these two last opinions, thus,
"If you will not allow, that this formlessness of matter seems to be called by
the name of heaven and earth; Ergo, there was something which God had
not made, out of which to make heaven and earth; for neither hath Scripture
told us, that God made this matter, unless we understand it to be signified
by the name of heaven and earth, or of earth alone, when it is said, In the
Beginning God made the heaven and earth; that so in what follows, and the
earth was invisible and without form (although it pleased Him so to call the
formless matter), we are to understand no other matter, but that which God
made, whereof is written above, God made heaven and earth." The
maintainers of either of those two latter opinions will, upon hearing this,
return for answer, "we do not deny this formless matter to be indeed created
by God, that God of Whom are all things, very good; for as we affirm that
to be a greater good, which is created and formed, so we confess that to be a
lesser good which is made capable of creation and form, yet still good. We
say however that Scripture hath not set down, that God made this
formlessness, as also it hath not many others; as the Cherubim, and
Seraphim, and those which the Apostle distinctly speaks of, Thrones,
Dominions, Principalities, Powers. All which that God made, is most
apparent. Or if in that which is said, He made heaven and earth, all things
be comprehended, what shall we say of the waters, upon which the Spirit of
God moved? For if they be comprised in this word earth; how then can
formless matter be meant in that name of earth, when we see the waters so
beautiful? Or if it be so taken; why then is it written, that out of the same
formlessness, the firmament was made, and called heaven; and that the
waters were made, is not written? For the waters remain not formless and
invisible, seeing we behold them flowing in so comely a manner. But if they
then received that beauty, when God said, Let the waters under the
firmament be gathered together, that so the gathering together be itself the
forming of them; what will be said as to those waters above the firmament?
Seeing neither if formless would they have been worthy of so honourable a
seat, nor is it written, by what word they were formed. If then Genesis is
silent as to God's making of any thing, which yet that God did make neither

sound faith nor well-grounded understanding doubteth, nor again will any
sober teaching dare to affirm these waters to be coeternal with God, on the
ground that we find them to be mentioned in the hook of Genesis, but when
they were created, we do not find; why (seeing truth teaches us) should we
not understand that formless matter (which this Scripture calls the earth
invisible and without form, and darksome deep) to have been created of
God out of nothing, and therefore not to be coeternal to Him;
notwithstanding this history hath omitted to show when it was created?"
These things then being heard and perceived, according to the weakness
of my capacity (which I confess unto Thee, O Lord, that knowest it), two
sorts of disagreements I see may arise, when a thing is in words related by
true reporters; one, concerning the truth of the things, the other, concerning
the meaning of the relater. For we enquire one way about the making of the
creature, what is true; another way, what Moses, that excellent minister of
Thy Faith, would have his reader and hearer understand by those words. For
the first sort, away with all those who imagine themselves to know as a
truth, what is false; and for this other, away with all them too, which
imagine Moses to have written things that be false. But let me be united in
Thee, O Lord, with those and delight myself in Thee, with them that feed on
Thy truth, in the largeness of charity, and let us approach together unto the
words of Thy book, and seek in them for Thy meaning, through the
meaning of Thy servant, by whose pen Thou hast dispensed them.
But which of us shall, among those so many truths, which occur to
enquirers in those words, as they are differently understood, so discover that
one meaning, as to affirm, "this Moses thought," and "this would he have
understood in that history"; with the same confidence as he would, "this is
true," whether Moses thought this or that? For behold, O my God, I Thy
servant, who have in this book vowed a sacrifice of confession unto Thee,
and pray, that by Thy mercy I may pay my vows unto Thee, can I, with the
same confidence wherewith I affirm, that in Thy incommutable world Thou
createdst all things visible and invisible, affirm also, that Moses meant no
other than this, when he wrote, In the Beginning God made heaven and
earth? No. Because I see not in his mind, that he thought of this when he
wrote these things, as I do see it in Thy truth to be certain. For he might
have his thoughts upon God's commencement of creating, when he said In
the beginning; and by heaven and earth, in this place he might intend no
formed and perfected nature whether spiritual or corporeal, but both of

them inchoate and as yet formless. For I perceive, that whichsoever of the
two had been said, it might have been truly said; but which of the two he
thought of in these words, I do not so perceive. Although, whether it were
either of these, or any sense beside (that I have not here mentioned), which
this so great man saw in his mind, when he uttered these words, I doubt not
but that he saw it truly, and expressed it aptly.
Let no man harass me then, by saying, Moses thought not as you say, but
as I say: for if he should ask me, "How know you that Moses thought that
which you infer out of his words?" I ought to take it in good part, and
would answer perchance as I have above, or something more at large, if he
were unyielding. But when he saith, "Moses meant not what you say, but
what I say," yet denieth not that what each of us say, may both be true, O
my God, life of the poor, in Whose bosom is no contradiction, pour down a
softening dew into my heart, that I may patiently bear with such as say this
to me, not because they have a divine Spirit, and have seen in the heart of
Thy servant what they speak, but because they be proud; not knowing
Moses' opinion, but loving their own, not because it is truth, but because it
is theirs. Otherwise they would equally love another true opinion, as I love
what they say, when they say true: not because it is theirs, but because it is
true; and on that very ground not theirs because it is true. But if they
therefore love it, because it is true, then is it both theirs, and mine; as being
in common to all lovers of truth. But whereas they contend that Moses did
not mean what I say, but what they say, this I like not, love not: for though it
were so, yet that their rashness belongs not to knowledge, but to
overboldness, and not insight but vanity was its parent. And therefore, O
Lord, are Thy judgements terrible; seeing Thy truth is neither mine, nor his,
nor another's; but belonging to us all, whom Thou callest publicly to partake
of it, warning us terribly, not to account it private to ourselves, lest we be
deprived of it. For whosoever challenges that as proper to himself, which
Thou propoundest to all to enjoy, and would have that his own which
belongs to all, is driven from what is in common to his own; that is, from
truth, to a lie. For he that speaketh a lie, speaketh it of his own.
Hearken, O God, Thou best judge; Truth Itself, hearken to what I shall
say to this gainsayer, hearken, for before Thee do I speak, and before my
brethren, who employ Thy law lawfully, to the end of charity: hearken and
behold, if it please Thee, what I shall say to him. For this brotherly and
peaceful word do I return unto Him: "If we both see that to be true that

Thou sayest, and both see that to be true that I say, where, I pray Thee, do
we see it? Neither I in thee, nor thou in me; but both in the unchangeable
Truth itself, which is above our souls." Seeing then we strive not about the
very light of the Lord God, why strive we about the thoughts of our
neighbour which we cannot so see, as the unchangeable Truth is seen: for
that, if Moses himself had appeared to us and said, "This I meant"; neither
so should we see it, but should believe it. Let us not then be puffed up for
one against another, above that which is written: let us love the Lord our
God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind: and our
neighbour as ourself. With a view to which two precepts of charity, unless
we believe that Moses meant, whatsoever in those books he did mean, we
shall make God a liar, imagining otherwise of our fellow servant's mind,
than he hath taught us. Behold now, how foolish it is, in such abundance of
most true meanings, as may be extracted out of those words, rashly to
affirm, which of them Moses principally meant; and with pernicious
contentions to offend charity itself, for whose sake he spake every thing,
whose words we go about to expound.
And yet I, O my God, Thou lifter up of my humility, and rest of my
labour, Who hearest my confessions, and forgivest my sins: seeing Thou
commandest me to love my neighbour as myself, I cannot believe that Thou
gavest a less gift unto Moses Thy faithful servant, than I would wish or
desire Thee to have given me, had I been born in the time he was, and hadst
Thou set me in that office, that by the service of my heart and tongue those
books might be dispensed, which for so long after were to profit all nations,
and through the whole world from such an eminence of authority, were to
surmount all sayings of false and proud teachings. I should have desired
verily, had I then been Moses (for we all come from the same lump, and
what is man, saving that Thou art mindful of him?), I would then, had I
been then what he was, and been enjoined by Thee to write the book of
Genesis, have desired such a power of expression and such a style to be
given me, that neither they who cannot yet understand how God created,
might reject the sayings, as beyond their capacity; and they who had
attained thereto, might find what true opinion soever they had by thought
arrived at, not passed over in those few words of that Thy servant: and
should another man by the light of truth have discovered another, neither
should that fail of being discoverable in those same words.

For as a fountain within a narrow compass, is more plentiful, and
supplies a tide for more streams over larger spaces, than any one of those
streams, which, after a wide interval, is derived from the same fountain; so
the relation of that dispenser of Thine, which was to benefit many who were
to discourse thereon, does out of a narrow scantling of language, overflow
into streams of clearest truth, whence every man may draw out for himself
such truth as he can upon these subjects, one, one truth, another, another, by
larger circumlocutions of discourse. For some, when they read, or hear
these words, conceive that God like a man or some mass endued with
unbounded power, by some new and sudden resolution, did, exterior to
itself, as it were at a certain distance, create heaven and earth, two great
bodies above and below, wherein all things were to be contained. And when
they hear, God said, Let it be made, and it was made; they conceive of
words begun and ended, sounding in time, and passing away; after whose
departure, that came into being, which was commanded so to do; and
whatever of the like sort, men's acquaintance with the material world would
suggest. In whom, being yet little ones and carnal, while their weakness is
by this humble kind of speech, carried on, as in a mother's bosom, their
faith is wholesomely built up, whereby they hold assured, that God made all
natures, which in admirable variety their eye beholdeth around. Which
words, if any despising, as too simple, with a proud weakness, shall stretch
himself beyond the guardian nest; he will, alas, fall miserably. Have pity, O
Lord God, lest they who go by the way trample on the unfledged bird, and
send Thine angel to replace it into the nest, that it may live, till it can fly.
But others, unto whom these words are no longer a nest, but deep shady
fruit-bowers, see the fruits concealed therein, fly joyously around, and with
cheerful notes seek out, and pluck them. For reading or hearing these
words, they see that all times past and to come, are surpassed by Thy eternal
and stable abiding; and yet that there is no creature formed in time, not of
Thy making. Whose will, because it is the same that Thou art, Thou madest
all things, not by any change of will, nor by a will, which before was not,
and that these things were not out of Thyself, in Thine own likeness, which
is the form of all things; but out of nothing, a formless unlikeness, which
should be formed by Thy likeness (recurring to Thy Unity, according to
their appointed capacity, so far as is given to each thing in his kind), and
might all be made very good; whether they abide around Thee, or being in
gradation removed in time and place, made or undergo the beautiful

variations of the Universe. These things they see, and rejoice, in the little
degree they here may, in the light of Thy truth.
Another bends his mind on that which is said, In the Beginning God
made heaven and earth; and beholdeth therein Wisdom, the Beginning
because It also speaketh unto us. Another likewise bends his mind on the
same words, and by Beginning understands the commencement of things
created; In the beginning He made, as if it were said, He at first made. And
among them that understand In the Beginning to mean, "In Thy Wisdom
Thou createdst heaven and earth," one believes the matter out of which the
heaven and earth were to be created, to be there called heaven and earth;
another, natures already formed and distinguished; another, one formed
nature, and that a spiritual, under the name Heaven, the other formless, a
corporeal matter, under the name Earth. They again who by the names
heaven and earth, understand matter as yet formless, out of which heaven
and earth were to be formed, neither do they understand it in one way; but
the one, that matter out of which both the intelligible and the sensible
creature were to be perfected; another, that only, out of which this sensible
corporeal mass was to be made, containing in its vast bosom these visible
and ordinary natures. Neither do they, who believe the creatures already
ordered and arranged, to be in this place called heaven and earth,
understand the same; but the one, both the invisible and visible, the other,
the visible only, in which we behold this lightsome heaven, and darksome
earth, with the things in them contained.
But he that no otherwise understands In the Beginning He made, than if it
were said, At first He made, can only truly understand heaven and earth of
the matter of heaven and earth, that is, of the universal intelligible and
corporeal creation. For if he would understand thereby the universe, as
already formed, it may be rightly demanded of him, "If God made this first,
what made He afterwards?" and after the universe, he will find nothing;
whereupon must he against his will hear another question; "How did God
make this first, if nothing after?" But when he says, God made matter first
formless, then formed, there is no absurdity, if he be but qualified to
discern, what precedes by eternity, what by time, what by choice, and what
in original. By eternity, as God is before all things; by time, as the flower
before the fruit; by choice, as the fruit before the flower; by original, as the
sound before the tune. Of these four, the first and last mentioned, are with
extreme difficulty understood, the two middle, easily. For a rare and too

lofty a vision is it, to behold Thy Eternity, O Lord, unchangeably making
things changeable; and thereby before them. And who, again, is of so sharp-
sighted understanding, as to be able without great pains to discern, how the
sound is therefore before the tune; because a tune is a formed sound; and a
thing not formed, may exist; whereas that which existeth not, cannot be
formed. Thus is the matter before the thing made; not because it maketh it,
seeing itself is rather made; nor is it before by interval of time; for we do
not first in time utter formless sounds without singing, and subsequently
adapt or fashion them into the form of a chant, as wood or silver, whereof a
chest or vessel is fashioned. For such materials do by time also precede the
forms of the things made of them, but in singing it is not so; for when it is
sung, its sound is heard; for there is not first a formless sound, which is
afterwards formed into a chant. For each sound, so soon as made, passeth
away, nor canst thou find ought to recall and by art to compose. So then the
chant is concentrated in its sound, which sound of his is his matter. And this
indeed is formed, that it may be a tune; and therefore (as I said) the matter
of the sound is before the form of the tune; not before, through any power it
hath to make it a tune; for a sound is no way the workmaster of the tune; but
is something corporeal, subjected to the soul which singeth, whereof to
make a tune. Nor is it first in time; for it is given forth together with the
tune; nor first in choice, for a sound is not better than a tune, a tune being
not only a sound, but a beautiful sound. But it is first in original, because a
tune receives not form to become a sound, but a sound receives a form to
become a tune. By this example, let him that is able, understand how the
matter of things was first made, and called heaven and earth, because
heaven and earth were made out of it. Yet was it not made first in time;
because the forms of things give rise to time; but that was without form, but
now is, in time, an object of sense together with its form. And yet nothing
can be related of that matter, but as though prior in time, whereas in value it
is last (because things formed are superior to things without form) and is
preceded by the Eternity of the Creator: that so there might be out of
nothing, whereof somewhat might be created.
In this diversity of the true opinions, let Truth herself produce concord.
And our God have mercy upon us, that we may use the law lawfully, the
end of the commandment, pure charity. By this if man demands of me,
"which of these was the meaning of Thy servant Moses"; this were not the
language of my Confessions, should I not confess unto Thee, "I know not";

and yet I know that those senses are true, those carnal ones excepted, of
which I have spoken what seemed necessary. And even those hopeful little
ones who so think, have this benefit, that the words of Thy Book affright
them not, delivering high things lowlily, and with few words a copious
meaning. And all we who, I confess, see and express the truth delivered in
those words, let us love one another, and jointly love Thee our God, the
fountain of truth, if we are athirst for it, and not for vanities; yea, let us so
honour this Thy servant, the dispenser of this Scripture, full of Thy Spirit,
as to believe that, when by Thy revelation he wrote these things, he
intended that, which among them chiefly excels both for light of truth, and
fruitfulness of profit.
So when one says, "Moses meant as I do"; and another, "Nay, but as I
do," I suppose that I speak more reverently, "Why not rather as both, if both
be true?" And if there be a third, or a fourth, yea if any other seeth any other
truth in those words, why may not he be believed to have seen all these,
through whom the One God hath tempered the holy Scriptures to the senses
of many, who should see therein things true but divers? For I certainly (and
fearlessly I speak it from my heart), that were I to indite any thing to have
supreme authority, I should prefer so to write, that whatever truth any could
apprehend on those matters, might be conveyed in my words, rather than set
down my own meaning so clearly as to exclude the rest, which not being
false, could not offend me. I will not therefore, O my God, be so rash, as
not to believe, that Thou vouchsafedst as much to that great man. He
without doubt, when he wrote those words, perceived and thought on what
truth soever we have been able to find, yea and whatsoever we have not
been able, nor yet are, but which may be found in them.
Lastly, O Lord, who art God and not flesh and blood, if man did see less,
could any thing be concealed from Thy good Spirit (who shall lead me into
the land of uprightness), which Thou Thyself by those words wert about to
reveal to readers in times to come, though he through whom they were
spoken, perhaps among many true meanings, thought on some one? which
if so it be, let that which he thought on be of all the highest. But to us, O
Lord, do Thou, either reveal that same, or any other true one which Thou
pleasest; that so, whether Thou discoverest the same to us, as to that Thy
servant, or some other by occasion of those words, yet Thou mayest feed us,
not error deceive us. Behold, O Lord my God, how much we have written
upon a few words, how much I beseech Thee! What strength of ours, yea

what ages would suffice for all Thy books in this manner? Permit me then
in these more briefly to confess unto Thee, and to choose some one true,
certain, and good sense that Thou shalt inspire me, although many should
occur, where many may occur; this being the law my confession, that if I
should say that which Thy minister intended, that is right and best; for this
should I endeavour, which if I should not attain, yet I should say that, which
Thy Truth willed by his words to tell me, which revealed also unto him,
what It willed.

BOOK XIII

I call upon Thee, O my God, my mercy, Who createdst me, and forgottest
not me, forgetting Thee. I call Thee into my soul which, by the longing
Thyself inspirest into her, Thou preparest for Thee. Forsake me not now
calling upon Thee, whom Thou preventedst before I called, and urgedst me
with much variety of repeated calls, that I would hear Thee from afar, and
be converted, and call upon Thee, that calledst after me; for Thou, Lord,
blottedst out all my evil deservings, so as not to repay into my hands,
wherewith I fell from Thee; and Thou hast prevented all my well
deservings, so as to repay the work of Thy hands wherewith Thou madest
me; because before I was, Thou wert; nor was I any thing, to which Thou
mightest grant to be; and yet behold, I am, out of Thy goodness, preventing
all this which Thou hast made me, and whereof Thou hast made me. For
neither hadst Thou need of me, nor am I any such good, as to be helpful
unto Thee, my Lord and God; not in serving Thee, as though Thou wouldest
tire in working; or lest Thy power might be less, if lacking my service: nor
cultivating Thy service, as a land, that must remain uncultivated, unless I
cultivated Thee: but serving and worshipping Thee, that I might receive a
well-being from Thee, from whom it comes, that I have a being capable of
well-being.
For of the fulness of Thy goodness, doth Thy creature subsist, that so a
good, which could no ways profit Thee, nor was of Thee (lest so it should
be equal to Thee), might yet be since it could be made of Thee. For what
did heaven and earth, which Thou madest in the Beginning, deserve of
Thee? Let those spiritual and corporeal natures which Thou madest in Thy
Wisdom, say wherein they deserved of Thee, to depend thereon (even in
that their several inchoate and formless state, whether spiritual or corporeal,
ready to fall away into an immoderate liberty and far-distant unlikeliness
unto Thee;—the spiritual, though without form, superior to the corporeal
though formed, and the corporeal though without form, better than were it
altogether nothing), and so to depend upon Thy Word, as formless, unless

by the same Word they were brought back to Thy Unity, indued with form
and from Thee the One Sovereign Good were made all very good. How did
they deserve of Thee, to be even without form, since they had not been even
this, but from Thee?
How did corporeal matter deserve of Thee, to be even invisible and
without form? seeing it were not even this, but that Thou madest it, and
therefore because it was not, could not deserve of Thee to be made. Or how
could the inchoate spiritual creature deserve of Thee, even to ebb and flow
darksomely like the deep,—unlike Thee, unless it had been by the same
Word turned to that, by Whom it was created, and by Him so enlightened,
become light; though not equally, yet conformably to that Form which is
equal unto Thee? For as in a body, to be, is not one with being beautiful,
else could it not be deformed; so likewise to a created spirit to live, is not
one with living wisely; else should it be wise unchangeably. But good it is
for it always to hold fast to Thee; lest what light it hath obtained by turning
to Thee, it lose by turning from Thee, and relapse into life resembling the
darksome deep. For we ourselves also, who as to the soul are a spiritual
creature, turned away from Thee our light, were in that life sometimes
darkness; and still labour amidst the relics of our darkness, until in Thy
Only One we become Thy righteousness, like the mountains of God. For we
have been Thy judgments, which are like the great deep.
That which Thou saidst in the beginning of the creation, Let there be
light, and there was light; I do, not unsuitably, understand of the spiritual
creature: because there was already a sort of life, which Thou mightest
illuminate. But as it had no claim on Thee for a life, which could be
enlightened, so neither now that it was, had it any, to be enlightened. For
neither could its formless estate be pleasing unto Thee, unless it became
light, and that not by existing simply, but by beholding the illuminating
light, and cleaving to it; so that, that it lived, and lived happily, it owes to
nothing but Thy grace, being turned by a better change unto That which
cannot be changed into worse or better; which Thou alone art, because
Thou alone simply art; unto Thee it being not one thing to live, another to
live blessedly, seeing Thyself art Thine own Blessedness.
What then could be wanting unto Thy good, which Thou Thyself art,
although these things had either never been, or remained without form;
which thou madest, not out of any want, but out of the fulness of Thy