Letter 26: 1. I have with difficulty found an opportunity for writing to you: who would believe it? Yet Licentius must take my word for it.

Augustine to Licentius -- greetings. 1. I have had great difficulty finding an opportunity to write to you -- who would believe it? But Licentius must take me at my word. I do not want you searching for the causes and reasons behind this; they could be given, but your trust in me frees me from the obligation to spell them out. Besides, I received your letters through messengers who were not available to carry back a reply. As for the matter you asked me to look into, I addressed it by letter as far as seemed appropriate, but with what result, you may have seen for yourself. If I have not yet succeeded, I will press the case more urgently, either when I learn the outcome or when you remind me of it. So far I have been speaking to you about things that clink with the chains of this life. Let me leave those behind. Hear now, in a few words, what my heart is anxious about: your hope for eternity, and how a way might be opened for you to God. 2. I am afraid, my dear Licentius, that by repeatedly rejecting and dreading the demands of wisdom as though they were shackles, you are becoming firmly and fatally chained to things that die. Wisdom may restrain people at first, may discipline them through certain labors, but then it gives genuine freedom, and once they are free, it enriches them with possession and enjoyment of itself. Its initial restraints are somewhat hard to bear, I admit. But its ultimate bonds I cannot call painful, because they are utterly sweet; nor can I call them easy, because they are utterly firm. They possess a quality that cannot be put into words, but that can be the object of faith, hope, and love. The chains of this world, by contrast, have real harshness and deceptive charm, certain pain and uncertain pleasure, hard toil and troubled rest -- an experience full of misery and a hope empty of happiness. And you are submitting your neck, hands, and feet to these chains? You desire to be burdened with honors of this kind? You consider your labors wasted unless they are rewarded this way? You are voluntarily aspiring to become fixed in something that neither persuasion nor force should have been able to draw you into? Perhaps you answer, in the words of the slave in Terence: "Well now, someone's pouring out wise words here." Then receive my words, so that I do not pour them out for nothing. But even if I sing while you prefer to dance to a different tune, I do not regret the effort of giving advice -- singing is a pleasure in itself, even when the song fails to move the person for whom it is sung with such care. I noticed some grammatical mistakes in your letters, but I think it trivial to discuss these when worry about your actions and your whole life is consuming me. 3. If your poetry were marred by faulty arrangement, or violated the rules of meter, or grated on the ear through imperfect rhythm, you would certainly be ashamed. You would spare no time, take no rest, until you had rearranged, corrected, remodeled, and polished your composition, devoting any amount of serious study and effort to mastering the art of verse. But when you yourself are marred by a disordered life, when you violate the laws of God, when your life matches neither the honorable hopes your friends have for you nor the light your own learning has given you -- do you think this is something trivial, to be swept out of sight and out of mind? As if you thought yourself of less value than the sound of your own voice, and considered it a smaller matter to displease God through a disordered life than to provoke the censure of grammarians through disordered syllables. 4. You write: "Oh, if the morning light of other days could bring back on its gladdening chariot those bright hours that are gone -- those hours we spent together in the heart of Italy and among the high mountains, proving the generous leisure and pure delights that belong to the good! Neither stern winter with its frozen snow nor the fierce blasts of the west wind and the raging north could stop me from following your footsteps with eager steps. You have only to say the word." Woe to me if I do not say it -- if I do not compel and command, or beg and implore you, to follow me! But if your ear is closed to my voice, let it be open to your own. Listen to yourself, O friend -- most unyielding, most unreasonable, most unmovable! What do I care about your golden tongue when your heart is iron? How shall I -- not in verses, but in lamentations -- adequately mourn over these verses of yours, in which I discover what a soul, what a mind it is that I am not permitted to seize and present as an offering to our God? You are waiting for me to say the word that you should become good, that you should find rest and happiness -- as if any day could shine more pleasantly on me than the day I enjoy your gifted mind in God, or as if you did not know how I hunger and thirst for you, or as if you did not confess this in your own poem. Return to the state of mind in which you wrote those words. Say to me again: "You have only to say the word." Here, then, is my word, if my saying it is enough to move you: Give yourself to me. Give yourself to my Lord, who is the Lord of us both and who gave you your gifts. For what am I, except His servant and your fellow-servant under Him? 5. Has He not already said the word Himself? Hear the Gospel -- it declares: "Jesus stood and cried out" (John 7:37). "Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light" (Matthew 11:28-30). If these words are not heard, or are heard only with the physical ear, do you, Licentius, really expect Augustine to issue his order to his fellow-servant, rather than to grieve that the will of his Lord is being despised -- when that Lord commands, invites, even entreats all who labor to find their rest in Him? But your strong, proud neck finds the yoke of the world easier than the yoke of Christ! Consider, then, who it is that imposes the yoke of Christ, and what the reward is. Go to Campania. See in the case of Paulinus, that distinguished and holy servant of God, how great the worldly honors were that he shook from a truly noble neck -- noble because humble -- without a moment's hesitation, in order to place it under the yoke of Christ. And now, with his mind at peace, he rejoices gently in the One who guides his path. Go, learn with what richness of mind he offers to God the sacrifice of praise, returning to Him all the good he has received from Him -- knowing that if he failed to store everything in the One from whom he received it, he would lose it all. 6. Why are you so agitated? Why so wavering? Why do you turn your ear away from me and lend it to the fantasies of fatal pleasures? They are false. They perish. They lead to destruction. They are false, Licentius. May the truth, as you desire, be demonstrated clearly to us -- may it flow more clearly than the river Eridanus. Truth alone declares what is true. Christ is the truth. Let us come to Him and be released from our labor. Let us take His yoke upon us, that He may heal us, and learn from Him who is gentle and humble in heart, and we will find rest for our souls -- for His yoke is easy and His burden is light. The devil wants to wear you as an ornament. If you found a golden chalice buried in the earth, you would give it to the Church of God. But you have received from God talents that are spiritually as precious as gold -- and do you devote these to the service of your lusts, and surrender yourself to Satan? Do not do it, I beg you. May you someday perceive with what a sad and sorrowful heart I have written these things. And I pray you, have mercy on me -- if you have ceased to be precious in your own eyes.

Letter 26 (A.D. 395) To Licentius from Augustine. 1. I have with difficulty found an opportunity for writing to you: who would believe it? Yet Licentius must take my word for it. I do not wish you to search curiously for the causes and reasons of this; for though they could be given, your confidence in me acquits me of obligation to furnish them. Moreover, I received your letters by messengers who were not available for the carrying back of my reply. And as to the thing which you asked me to ask, I attended to it by letter as far as it seemed to me right to bring it forward; but with what result you may have seen. If I have not yet succeeded, I will press the matter more earnestly, either when the result comes to my knowledge, or when you yourself remind me of it. Thus far I have spoken to you of the things in which we hear the sound of the chains of this life. I pass from them. Receive now in a few words the utterance of my heart's anxieties concerning your hope for eternity, and the question how a way may be opened for you to God. 2. I fear, my dear Licentius, that you, while repeatedly rejecting and dreading the restraints of wisdom, as if these were bonds, are becoming firmly and fatally in bondage to mortal things. For wisdom, though at first it restrains men, and subdues them by some labours in the way of discipline, gives them presently true freedom, and enriches them, when free, with the possession and enjoyment of itself; and though at first it educates them by the help of temporary restraints, it folds them afterwards in its eternal embrace, the sweetest and strongest of all conceivable bonds. I admit, indeed, that these initial restraints are somewhat hard to bear; but the ultimate restraints of wisdom I cannot call grievous, because they are most sweet; nor can I call them easy, because they are most firm: in short, they possess a quality which cannot be described, but which can be the object of faith, and hope, and love. The bonds of this world, on the other hand, have a real harshness and a delusive charm, certain pain and uncertain pleasure, hard toil and troubled rest, an experience full of misery, and a hope devoid of happiness. And are you submitting neck and hands and feet to these chains, desiring to be burdened with honours of this kind, reckoning your labours to be in vain if they are not thus rewarded, and spontaneously aspiring to become fixed in that to which neither persuasion nor force ought to have induced you to go? Perhaps you answer, in the words of the slave in Terence, So ho, you are pouring out wise words here. Receive my words, then, that I may pour them out without wasting them. But if I sing, while you prefer to dance to another tune, even thus I do not regret my effort to give advice; for the exercise of singing yields pleasure even when the song fails to stir to responsive motion the person for whom it is sung with loving care. There were in your letters some verbal mistakes which attracted my attention, but I judge it trifling to discuss these when solicitude about your actions and your whole life disturbs me. 3. If your verses were marred by defective arrangement, or violated the laws of prosody, or grated on the ears of the hearer by imperfect rhythm, you would doubtless be ashamed, and you would lose no time, you would take no rest, until you arranged, corrected, remodelled, and balanced your composition, devoting any amount of earnest study and toil to the acquisition and practice of the art of versification: but when you yourself are marred by disorderly living, when you violate the laws of God, when your life accords neither with the honourable desires of friends on your behalf, nor with the light given by your own learning, do you think this is a trifle to be cast out of sight and out of mind? As if, forsooth, you thought yourself of less value than the sound of your own voice, and esteemed it a smaller matter to displease God by ill-ordered life, than to provoke the censure of grammarians by ill-ordered syllables. 4. You write thus: Oh that the morning light of other days could with its gladdening chariot bring back to me bright hours that are gone, which we spent together in the heart of Italy and among the high mountains, when proving the generous leisure and pure privileges which belong to the good! Neither stern winter with its frozen snow, nor the rude blasts of Zephyrs and raging of Boreas, could deter me from following your footsteps with eager tread. You have only to express your wish. Woe be to me if I do not express this wish, nay, if I do not compel and command, or beseech and implore you to follow me. If, however, your ear is shut against my voice, let it be open to your own voice, and give heed to your own poem: listen to yourself, O friend, most unyielding, unreasonable, and unimpressible. What care I for your tongue of gold, while your heart is of iron? How shall I, not in verses, but in lamentations, sufficiently bewail these verses of yours, in which I discover what a soul, what a mind that is which I am not permitted to seize and present as an offering to our God? You are waiting for me to express the wish that you should become good, and enjoy rest and happiness: as if any day could shine more pleasantly on me than that in which I shall enjoy in God your gifted mind, or as if you did not know how I hunger and thirst for you, or as if you did not in this poem itself confess this. Return to the mind in which you wrote these things; say to me now again, You have only to express your wish. Here then is my wish, if my expression of it be enough to move you to comply: Give yourself to me — give yourself to my Lord, who is the Lord of us both and who has endowed you with your faculties: for what am I but through Him your servant, and under Him your fellow-servant? 5. Nay, has not He given expression to His will? Hear the gospel: it declares, Jesus stood and cried. John 7:37 Come unto me, all you that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: so shall you find rest to your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. Matthew 11:28-30 If these words are not heard, or are heard only with the ear, do you, Licentius, expect Augustine to issue his command to his fellow-servant, and not rather complain that the will of his Lord is despised, when He orders, nay invites, and as it were entreats all who labour to seek rest in Him? But to your strong and proud neck, forsooth, the yoke of the world seems easier than the yoke of Christ; yet consider, in regard to the yoke which He imposes, by whom and with what recompense it is imposed. Go to Campania, learn in the case of Paulinus, that eminent and holy servant of God, how great worldly honours he shook off, without hesitation, from neck truly noble because humble, in order that he might place it, as he has done, beneath the yoke of Christ; and now, with his mind at rest, he meekly rejoices in Him as the guide of his way. Go, learn with what wealth of mind he offers to Him the sacrifice of praise, rendering unto Him all the good which he has received from Him, lest, by failing to store all that he has in Him from whom he received it, he should lose it all. 6. Why are you so excited? Why so wavering? Why do you turn your ear away from us, and lend it to the imaginations of fatal pleasures? They are false, they perish, and they lead to perdition. They are false, Licentius. May the truth, as you desire, be made plain to us by demonstration, may it flow more clear than Eridanus. The truth alone declares what is true: Christ is the truth; let us come to Him that we may be released from labour. That He may heal us, let us take His yoke upon us, and learn of Him who is meek and lowly in heart, and we shall find rest unto our souls: for His yoke is easy, and His burden is light. The devil desires to wear you as an ornament. Now, if you found in the earth a golden chalice, you would give it to the Church of God. But you have received from God talents that are spiritually valuable as gold; and do you devote these to the service of your lusts, and surrender yourself to Satan? Do it not, I entreat you. May you at some time perceive with what a sad and sorrowful heart I have written these things; and I pray you, have pity on me if you have ceased to be precious in your own eyes. About this page Source. Translated by J.G. Cunningham. From Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 1. Edited by Philip Schaff. 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