‘I cannot see how anyone can dissent from these conclusions.’
‘But we have also proved that God and true happiness are one and the same.’
‘Yes,’ said I.
‘Then we can safely conclude, also, that God’s essence is seated in absolute good, and nowhere else.’
Song X. The True Light.
Hither come, all ye whose minds Lust with rosy fetters binds— Lust to bondage hard compelling Th’ earthy souls that are his dwelling— Here shall be your labour’s close; Here your haven of repose.
Come, to your one refuge press; Wide it stands to all distress!
Not the glint of yellow gold Down bright Hermus’ current rolled; Not the Tagus’ precious sands, Nor in far-off scorching lands All the radiant gems that hide Under Indus’ storied tide— Emerald green and glistering white— Can illume our feeble sight; But they rather leave the mind In its native darkness blind.
For the fairest beams they shed In earth’s lowest depths were fed; But the splendour that supplies Strength and vigour to the skies, And the universe controls, Shunneth dark and ruined souls.
He who once hath seen this light Will not call the sunbeam bright.
XI.
‘I quite agree,’ said I, ‘truly all thy reasonings hold admirably together.’
Then said she: ‘What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou come to the knowledge of the absolute good?’
‘Oh, an infinite,’ said I, ‘if only I were so blest as to learn to know God also who is the good.’
‘Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only our recent conclusions stand fast.’
‘They will.’
‘Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true and perfect good precisely for this cause—that they differ severally one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no claim to be counted among things desirable?’
‘Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.’
‘Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become good by acquiring unity?’
‘It seems so,’ said I.
‘But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation in goodness?’
‘It is.’
‘Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ not, their essence is one and the same.’
‘There is no denying it.’
‘Now, dost thou know,’ said she, ‘that all which is abides and subsists so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it perishes and falls to pieces?’
‘In what way?’
‘Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body’s unity, it ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.’
‘Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.’
‘Well, is there aught,’ said she, ‘which, in so far as it acts conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come to death and corruption?’
‘Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction! As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether in doubt what to think.’
‘And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where, as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes, others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather’s inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is nature’s diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed! Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself? Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but ofthe drift of nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it, and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and shun destruction.’
‘I confess,’ said I, ‘that what I lately thought uncertain, I now perceive to be indubitably clear.’
‘Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.’
‘True,’ said I.
‘All