Life of Saint Martin

Severus to his dearest brother Desiderius. For my part, brother of one mind with me, I had decided to keep the little book I had written on the life of Saint Martin pressed in its own sheets and confined within the walls of my house. Being by nature very weak, I shunned human judgments, fearing — as I think will happen — that my rather unpolished style would displease readers and that I would be judged most deserving of everyone's censure for having shamelessly seized a subject that should rightly have been reserved for eloquent writers. But I could not refuse you when you asked so often. For what is there that I would not spend on your love, even at the cost of my modesty? Yet I have given you the book trusting that it is to be disclosed by you to no one, since you promised that. But I fear that you will be its door, and that once let out it cannot be called back. If that happens, and you see that it is being read by some, you will kindly ask the readers to weigh the matter rather than the words, and to bear it patiently if a faulty style perhaps grates on their ears, since the kingdom of God consists not in eloquence but in faith. Let them also remember that salvation was preached to the world not by orators — though the Lord could certainly have provided that too, had it been useful — but by fishermen. For when I first set my mind to writing, because I thought it wrong for the virtues of so great a man to lie hidden, I resolved within myself not to blush at solecisms: I never acquired any great knowledge of these matters, and if I once perhaps tasted something of these studies, I had lost it all through such long disuse. Nevertheless, so that such a troublesome defence need not await us, let the book be published, if you agree, with the name suppressed. So that this can be done, erase the title from its front, so that the page may be mute and — which is enough — speak of its subject, not of its author.

Most mortals, vainly devoted to the pursuit of worldly glory, sought from it what they thought would be a lasting memory of their name, by making the lives of famous men illustrious with their pen. This brought them, not indeed a lasting memory, but at least some small fruit of the hope they had formed: they spread their own memory, though to no purpose, and by setting before readers the examples of great men they stirred up no small emulation in them. Yet this care of theirs had nothing to do with that blessed and eternal life. For what did the glory of their writings, which was to perish with the world, profit them? Or what benefit did posterity gain from reading of Hector fighting or Socrates philosophizing? Not only is it folly to imitate such men; it is madness not to oppose them most vigorously. For they valued human life only by present deeds and gave their hopes to fables and their souls to tombs, since they believed that they would be perpetuated only in the memory of men; whereas it is man's duty to seek lasting life rather than lasting memory, not by writing or fighting or philosophizing, but by living piously, holily, and devoutly. This human error, handed down in literature, prevailed so far that it has found many imitators either of vain philosophy or of that foolish valour. I think, therefore, that I shall do something worthwhile if I write out in full the life of a most holy man, which will soon serve as an example to others; by it readers will be roused to true wisdom, to heavenly warfare, and to divine virtue. In this we also take account of our own advantage, so that we may expect, not an empty memory from men, but an eternal reward from God; for although we ourselves have not lived so as to be an example to others, we have at least taken care that he who ought to be imitated should not lie hidden. I shall begin, then, to write the life of Saint Martin: how he conducted himself both before his episcopate and during it. Yet I have by no means been able to reach all his deeds, so much so that those of which he alone was aware are unknown, because, seeking no praise from men, he would have wished all his virtues, as far as it lay with him, to be hidden. Even of those we had learned we have left out many, because we thought it enough if only the outstanding ones were recorded; at the same time we had to consider our readers, so that a heaped-up abundance should not weary them. I beg those who are going to read this to give credit to what is said and not to think that I have written anything except what I had ascertained and verified; otherwise I would rather have kept silent than said what is false.

Martin, then, was born at Sabaria, a town of Pannonia, but was brought up in Italy at Ticinum. His parents were not of the lowest rank by worldly standards, but they were pagans. His father was first a soldier and afterwards a military tribune. He himself followed armed service from his youth and served in the imperial guard cavalry under the emperor Constantius, then under Julian Caesar — not, however, of his own will, for almost from his earliest years the holy childhood of this remarkable boy aspired rather to the service of God. When he was ten years old he fled to the church against his parents' will and asked to be made a catechumen. Soon, wonderfully turned wholly to the work of God, at the age of twelve he longed for the desert, and he would have fulfilled his wish had not the weakness of his age prevented him. Yet his mind, always intent on the monasteries or the church, was already meditating in boyhood what he later fulfilled in devotion. But when the emperors issued an edict that the sons of veterans should be enrolled for military service, his father, who resented his happy course, betrayed him; at fifteen he was seized, put in chains, and bound by the military oath. He was content with a single slave as companion, and yet, the roles reversed, the master served the slave, so much so that he usually pulled off his boots and cleaned them himself; they took their meals together, but it was the master who more often waited at table. For about three years before his baptism he was under arms, yet he remained free from the vices in which that class of men is commonly entangled. Great was his kindness towards his fellow soldiers, wonderful his charity, and his patience and humility were beyond human measure. There is no need to praise his frugality: he practised it so that even then he was taken to be not a soldier but a monk. By all this he had so bound his fellow soldiers to himself that they revered him with remarkable affection. Although not yet reborn in Christ, he lived like a candidate for baptism by good works: standing by those in trouble, bringing help to the wretched, feeding the needy, clothing the naked, and keeping nothing of his military pay for himself except his daily food. Already then, no deaf hearer of the gospel, he took no thought for the morrow.

So on one occasion, when he had nothing left but his weapons and his plain military cloak, in the middle of a winter that had set in harsher than usual, so that the severity of the cold was killing many, he met at the gate of the city of Amiens a naked poor man. The man was begging those who passed by to have pity on him, and all were passing the wretch by; and the man filled with God understood that, since the others were showing him no mercy, he was being kept for himself. But what was he to do? He had nothing but the cloak he was wearing, for he had already spent the rest on similar work. So he drew the sword with which he was girded, cut the cloak down the middle, gave one part to the poor man, and put the rest on again. Meanwhile some of the bystanders began to laugh, because he looked unsightly in his cut-down garment; but many of sounder mind groaned more deeply that they had done nothing like it, since, having more, they could certainly have clothed the poor man without leaving themselves naked. The following night, when he had given himself to sleep, he saw Christ clothed with the part of his cloak with which he had covered the poor man. He was told to look most carefully at the Lord and to recognize the garment he had given. Soon he heard Jesus say in a clear voice to the multitude of angels standing round: "Martin, still a catechumen, has clothed me with this garment." Truly the Lord, mindful of his own words, who had foretold, "As long as you did it to one of these least, you did it to me," declared that he had been clothed in the poor man; and to confirm his witness to so good a work, he deigned to show himself in the very garment the poor man had received. After this vision the most blessed man was not puffed up with human glory, but, recognizing the goodness of God in his own work, he hastened to baptism at the age of eighteen. Yet he did not at once renounce military service, being won over by the entreaties of his tribune, with whom he shared a tent as a close companion; for the tribune promised that when his term as tribune was over he would renounce the world. Held in suspense by this expectation, Martin served for about two years after he had received baptism, though a soldier in name only.

Meanwhile, when barbarians were breaking into Gaul, Julian Caesar gathered his army together near the city of the Vangiones and began to distribute a bounty to the soldiers. As is customary, they were called up one by one, until Martin's turn came. Then, judging it the right moment to ask for his discharge — for he thought it would not be honest to accept a bounty if he did not intend to go on serving — he said to Caesar: "Up to now I have served you; allow me now to serve God. Let the man who is going to fight accept your bounty; I am a soldier of Christ: I am not permitted to fight." At this the tyrant raged, saying that he was refusing service from fear of the battle due to be fought the next day, not for the sake of religion. But Martin, undaunted, and even steadier for the terror brought against him, said: "If this is put down to cowardice and not to faith, tomorrow I shall stand unarmed before the battle line, and in the name of the Lord Jesus, protected by the sign of the cross and not by shield or helmet, I shall pass through the enemy's columns unharmed." So he was ordered to be thrust back into custody, so that he might make good his words by being exposed unarmed to the barbarians. The next day the enemy sent envoys to sue for peace, surrendering themselves and all they had. Who, then, can doubt that this victory truly belonged to the blessed man, to whom it was granted not to be sent unarmed into battle? And although the merciful Lord could have preserved his soldier even amid the swords and spears of the enemy, yet, so that the saint's eyes should not be defiled even by the deaths of others, he removed the necessity of battle. For Christ ought to grant no other victory for his soldier than this: that the enemy should be subdued without bloodshed and no one should die.

After leaving the army he sought out Saint Hilary, bishop of the city of Poitiers, whose faith in the things of God was then regarded as proven and well known, and stayed with him for some time. This same Hilary tried to bind him more closely to himself by laying on him the office of deacon and to tie him to the divine ministry. But when Martin repeatedly refused, crying out that he was unworthy, that man of deeper insight understood that he could be bound in only one way: by laying on him an office that might seem to carry some slight. So he appointed him an exorcist. Martin did not reject this ordination, lest he seem to have despised it as too lowly. Not long afterwards he was warned in his sleep to visit his homeland and his parents, who were still held by paganism, out of religious concern for them. He set out with the consent of Saint Hilary, who bound him with many prayers and tears to return. He began that journey sorrowfully, they say, declaring to the brothers that he would suffer many adversities, which the outcome afterwards proved. First, following byways in the Alps, he fell among robbers. When one of them had raised an axe and aimed a blow at his head, another held back the striker's right hand; but with his hands bound behind his back he was handed over to one of them to be guarded and stripped. This man led him to a more remote place and began to ask him who he was. He answered that he was a Christian. The robber also asked him whether he was afraid. Then he declared most steadfastly that he had never felt so safe, because he knew that the Lord's mercy would be present above all in trials; rather, he grieved for the robber, who, living by robbery, was unworthy of Christ's mercy. And entering on a discussion of the gospel, he preached the word of God to the robber. Why should I linger? The robber believed, escorted Martin, and set him back on his road, asking him to pray to the Lord for him. This same man was later seen leading a religious life, so that what I have related above is said to have been heard from him.

Martin then went on from there, and when he had passed Milan, the devil, taking a human form, met him on the road and asked him where he was going. When he received Martin's answer, that he was going wherever the Lord called him, he said to him: "Wherever you go or whatever you attempt, the devil will oppose you." Then Martin answered him in the words of the prophet: "The Lord is my helper; I will not fear what man may do to me." And immediately the enemy vanished from his sight. So, as he had purposed in heart and mind, he freed his mother from the error of paganism, though his father persisted in evil; yet he saved many by his example. Afterwards, when the Arian heresy had sprung up throughout the world, and especially in Illyricum, and he almost alone was fighting most vigorously against the faithlessness of the bishops, he suffered many punishments — he was publicly beaten with rods and finally forced to leave the city. Making his way back to Italy, and learning that in Gaul too the church was in turmoil because of the departure of Saint Hilary, whom the violence of the heretics had driven into exile, he set up a monastery for himself at Milan. There too Auxentius, the author and leader of the Arians, persecuted him most severely, and after inflicting many injuries on him drove him out of the city. Judging that he must give way to the times, he withdrew to the island called Gallinaria with a certain presbyter, a man of great virtues. There for some time he lived on the roots of plants, and during that time he ate hellebore, a poisonous herb, they say, as food. But when he felt the power of the poison spreading through him and death already near, he drove off the threatening danger by prayer, and at once all pain was put to flight. Not long afterwards, learning that Saint Hilary had been granted permission to return by the emperor's change of mind, he tried to meet him at Rome and set out for the city.

Since Hilary had already passed by, Martin followed in his footsteps; and having been most warmly received by him, he established a monastery for himself not far from the town. At that time a certain catechumen joined him, wishing to be trained in the disciplines of the most holy man. A few days later he was seized by illness and suffered from a violent fever. Martin happened to be away at the time; and when he had been absent for three days, he returned to find a lifeless body: death had come so suddenly that the man had departed from human affairs without baptism. The body had been laid out in the middle of the room and the grieving brothers were thronging round it performing their sad office, when Martin hurried up weeping and wailing. Then, taking the Holy Spirit wholly into his mind, he ordered the others to leave the cell in which the body lay, bolted the doors, and stretched himself out over the lifeless limbs of the dead brother. When he had given himself to prayer for some time, and perceived through the Spirit that the power of the Lord was present, he raised himself a little and, with his eyes fixed on the dead man's face, waited fearlessly for the outcome of his prayer and of the Lord's mercy. Scarcely two hours had passed when he saw the dead man gradually begin to move in all his limbs and his eyes to open and flicker into sight. Then, turning to the Lord with a loud voice and giving thanks, he filled the cell with his cry. Hearing this, those who had been standing outside the doors immediately rushed in. It was a wonderful sight: they saw alive the man they had left dead. Thus restored to life, he at once received baptism and lived for many years afterwards; and he was the first among us to be both the occasion and the witness of Martin's miracles. He used to relate that when he was stripped of the body he was led to the judge's tribunal and received the grim sentence of being assigned to dark places among the common throng; then two angels suggested to the judge that this was the man for whom Martin was praying; so by the same angels he was ordered to be brought back, given back to Martin, and restored to his former life. From this time the blessed man's name began to shine, so that he who was already regarded by all as holy was also regarded as powerful and truly apostolic.

Not long afterwards, as he was passing the estate of a certain Lupicinus, a man of rank by the world's standards, he was met by the shouting and lamentation of a mourning crowd. When he stopped with concern and asked what this weeping was, he was told that one of the household's young slaves had taken his own life with a noose. On learning this he went into the cell where the body lay, shut out all the crowd, stretched himself over the body, and prayed for a little while. Soon the face came to life, and the dead man, his eyes drowsy, raised himself towards Martin's face; with a slow effort he struggled to rise, took hold of the blessed man's right hand, and stood on his feet; and so, while the whole crowd looked on, he walked with him as far as the entrance hall of the house.

At about the same time he was sought for the episcopate of the church of Tours. But since he could not easily be torn from his monastery, a certain Rusticius, one of the citizens, pretending that his wife was ill, threw himself at Martin's knees and prevailed on him to come out. So, with crowds of citizens already posted along the road, he was brought under a kind of guard all the way to the city. An incredible multitude had gathered in a wonderful way to cast their votes, not only from that town but also from the neighbouring cities. There was one will among all, the same wishes and the same opinion: that Martin was most worthy of the episcopate, and that the church would be happy with such a bishop. A few, however, including some of the bishops who had been summoned to appoint the bishop, impiously opposed him, saying, of course, that he was a contemptible person, that a man with a despicable face, dirty clothes, and unkempt hair was unworthy of the episcopate. Thus the madness of those men was laughed at by the people of sounder judgment, for in wishing to disparage the illustrious man they were proclaiming his praise. Nor could they do anything other than what the people, by the Lord's will, intended. Among the bishops present, however, a certain Defensor is said to have resisted most of all; and so it was observed that he was severely censured at that time by a reading from the prophet. For it happened that the reader whose duty it was to read that day had been cut off by the crowd and was absent. The ministers were thrown into confusion, and while they waited for the one who was not there, one of the bystanders took up the psalter and seized on the first verse he found. This was the psalm: "Out of the mouth of infants and sucklings you have perfected praise because of your enemies, that you may destroy the enemy and the defender." When this was read, a shout went up from the people and the opposing party was confounded. And so it was held that this psalm had been read by divine will, so that Defensor might hear a witness to his own deed: out of the mouth of infants and sucklings, the Lord's praise having been perfected in Martin, the enemy was at once exposed and destroyed.

What sort of man and how great he showed himself once he had taken up the episcopate it is beyond our power to set out. For he persevered most steadfastly as the same man he had been before. There was the same humility in his heart, the same poverty in his clothing; and so, full of authority and grace, he fulfilled the dignity of a bishop without abandoning the purpose and virtue of a monk. For some time he used a cell attached to the church; then, when he could not bear the disturbance of those who crowded to him, he set up a monastery for himself about two miles outside the city. This place was so secluded and remote that it lacked nothing of the solitude of the desert. On one side it was enclosed by the sheer rock of a high cliff, and the river Loire had shut in the remaining level ground with a gentle bend; it could be approached by only one path, and that a very narrow one. He himself had a cell built of wood, and many of the brothers had the same; most had made shelters for themselves by hollowing out the rock of the mountain above. There were about eighty disciples, who were being trained after the example of their blessed master. No one there had anything of his own; everything was put in common. It was not permitted, as it is with many monks, to buy or sell anything. No craft was practised there except that of the copyists, and to that work the younger men were assigned; the older ones were free for prayer. Anyone rarely went out of his cell except when they gathered at the place of prayer. All took their food together after the hour of fasting. No one knew wine unless illness had forced it on him. Most were clothed in camel hair; softer dress was there counted an offence. This must be the more remarkable because many among them were of noble birth, who had been brought up very differently and had forced themselves to this humility and endurance; and many of them we have afterwards seen as bishops. For what city or church would there be that did not desire a bishop from Martin's monastery?

But to come to the rest of the miracles he performed during his episcopate: not far from the town, close to the monastery, there was a place which a false popular belief had made sacred, as though martyrs had been buried there; for an altar set up there by earlier bishops was also in use. But Martin, not rashly giving credit to uncertain things, pressed the older presbyters and clergy to show him the martyr's name and the time of his suffering; he said he was troubled by great scruples, because no consistent memory of their elders had handed down anything certain. So for some time he kept away from that place, neither disparaging the devotion, since he was uncertain, nor lending his authority to the common people, lest a superstition should gain strength. Then one day, taking a few brothers with him, he went to the place. Standing on the tomb itself, he prayed to the Lord to show who was buried there and what his merit was. Then, turning to his left, he saw standing near him a ghost, foul and fierce. He commanded it to state its name and merit. It told its name and confessed its crime: it had been a robber, executed for its crimes, and honoured by the error of the common people; it had nothing in common with the martyrs, since glory held them, but punishment held it. Wonderfully, those who were present heard the voice of the speaker but did not see the figure. Then Martin explained what he had seen and ordered the altar that had stood there to be removed from the place, and so he freed the people from the error of that superstition.

It happened afterwards, while he was on a journey, that he met the body of a pagan being carried to the tomb with a superstitious funeral procession. Seeing the crowd coming from a distance and not knowing what it was, he stood still for a little; for the distance was nearly five hundred paces, so that it was hard to make out what he was seeing. Yet because he saw a band of country people, and the linen cloths laid over the body were fluttering in the wind, he believed that profane sacrificial rites were being performed; for it was the custom of the Gallic countrymen to carry the images of demons, covered with a white veil, round their fields in their wretched madness. So, raising the sign of the cross against them, he ordered the crowd not to move from the spot and to put down its burden. Then, wonderfully, you would have seen the wretched people first stiffen like stones. Next, when they strove with all their might to move forward and could not advance, they were spun round in a ridiculous whirl, until, overcome, they put down the body they were carrying. Astonished and looking at one another, they silently wondered what had happened to them. But when the blessed man found out that this was a funeral gathering and not a religious rite, he raised his hand again and gave them leave to go and to take up the body. Thus he both compelled them to stand when he wished and allowed them to go when he pleased.

Again, when in a certain village he had demolished a very ancient temple and had set about cutting down a pine tree that stood next to the shrine, the priest of the place and the rest of the crowd of pagans began to resist. Although these same people had kept quiet, by the Lord's command, while the temple was being overthrown, they would not allow the tree to be cut down. He carefully admonished them that there was nothing sacred in a tree trunk; they should rather follow God, whom he himself served; that tree ought to be cut down because it was dedicated to a demon. Then one of them, bolder than the rest, said: "If you have any confidence in your God, whom you say you worship, we ourselves will cut down this tree, and you catch it as it falls; and if your Lord, as you say, is with you, you will escape." Then Martin, fearlessly trusting in the Lord, promised to do it. At this the whole crowd of pagans agreed to such terms, reckoning the loss of their tree a small price if by its fall they crushed the enemy of their rites. So, since the pine was leaning to one side, so that there was no doubt on which side it would fall when cut, Martin was bound and placed, as the country people chose, on the spot where no one doubted the tree would fall. So they themselves began to cut down their own pine with great joy and delight. A crowd of onlookers stood at a distance, marvelling. And now the pine began gradually to nod and to threaten its fall. The monks at a distance turned pale, and terrified by the danger now drawing closer, they had lost all hope and faith, expecting only Martin's death. But he, trusting in the Lord, waited fearlessly; and when the falling pine had already given its crack, as it was already falling, already rushing down on him, he raised his hand against it and set up the sign of salvation against it. Then — you would have thought it had been driven back like a whirlwind — it fell in the opposite direction, so that it almost flattened the country people, who had stood in a safe place. Then, with a shout raised to heaven, the pagans were amazed at the miracle, the monks wept for joy, and the name of Christ was proclaimed by all together; and it was agreed that on that day salvation had come to that region. For there was scarcely anyone in that vast multitude of pagans who did not ask for the laying on of hands and, abandoning the error of impiety, believe in the Lord Jesus. And truly, before Martin very few, indeed almost none, in those regions had received the name of Christ; but through his miracles and example it has grown so strong that there is now no place there that is not filled with crowded churches or monasteries. For wherever he destroyed shrines, he immediately built churches or monasteries there.

At about the same time he showed no lesser power in the same work. For when in a certain village he had set fire to a very ancient and famous shrine, balls of flame were carried by the wind towards a house next to it, indeed adjoining it. When Martin noticed this, he ran quickly up onto the roof of the house and put himself in the path of the approaching flames. Then, wonderfully, you would have seen the fire turned back against the force of the wind, so that there seemed to be a kind of struggle between the elements fighting each other. So, through Martin's power, the fire worked only where it was ordered. In a village called Leprosum, when he likewise wished to overthrow a very rich temple of superstitious religion, a multitude of pagans resisted him, so that he was driven back, not without violence. So he withdrew to a place nearby, and there for three days, clothed in sackcloth and ashes, continually fasting and praying, he besought the Lord that, since human hands had not been able to overthrow that temple, divine power might destroy it. Then suddenly two angels with spears and shields, like the heavenly army, presented themselves to him, saying that they had been sent by the Lord to put the country crowd to flight and to give Martin protection, so that no one should resist while the temple was being destroyed; he should therefore go back and devoutly finish the work he had begun. So he returned to the village, and while the crowds of pagans looked on and kept still, he demolished the profane building to its foundations and reduced all the altars and images to dust. When the country people saw this, understanding that they had been stunned and terrified by the divine will so as not to resist the bishop, almost all of them believed in the Lord Jesus, crying out openly and confessing that Martin's God should be worshipped and the idols disregarded, since they could help neither themselves nor others.

I shall also relate what happened in a district of the Aedui. While he was likewise overthrowing a temple there, a raging multitude of pagan country people rushed at him. And when one of them, bolder than the rest, attacked him with drawn sword, Martin threw back his cloak and offered his bare neck to the man about to strike. The pagan did not hesitate to strike; but when he had raised his right hand high, he fell over backwards and, overwhelmed with the fear of God, begged for pardon. Not unlike this was another incident. When someone tried to strike him with a knife as he was destroying idols, at the very moment of the blow the weapon was knocked out of his hand and disappeared. Very often, however, when country people argued against him that he should not destroy their shrines, he so calmed the pagans' minds by holy preaching that, once the light of truth had been shown them, they overthrew their own temples themselves.

So great was the grace of healing in him that scarcely any sick person came to him who did not at once recover health, as will be clear from the following example. At Trier a certain girl was held by a dreadful paralysis, so that for a long time now she had been unable to perform any bodily function for human needs; dead already in every part, she barely fluttered with a faint breath. Her relatives stood by in sorrow, waiting only for her funeral, when suddenly it was announced that Martin had come to that city. When the girl's father learned this, he ran breathless to plead for his daughter. Martin happened to have already gone into the church. There, while the people and many other bishops who were present looked on, the old man, wailing, clasped his knees and said: "My daughter is dying of a wretched kind of illness, and, what is crueller than death itself, she lives only in her breath, her flesh already dead. I beg you to go to her and bless her, for I trust that through you she will be restored to health." Confounded by these words, Martin was astonished and drew back, saying that this was beyond his power, that the old man was mistaken in his judgment, and that he was not worthy to be the one through whom the Lord would show a sign of his power. The father persisted, weeping more violently, and begged him to visit the lifeless girl. At last, compelled by the bishops standing round to go, he went down to the girl's house. A huge crowd was waiting outside the doors to see what the servant of God would do. First, using the weapons familiar to him in such matters, he lay prostrate on the ground and prayed. Then, looking at the sick girl, he asked for oil to be given him; when he had blessed it, he poured the power of the holy liquid into the girl's mouth, and at once her voice was restored. Then gradually, at his touch, one limb after another began to come to life, until, her steps made firm, she rose up with the people as witness.

At the same time a slave of a certain Taetradius, a man of proconsular rank, was seized by a demon and tormented to a pitiful end. So Martin was asked to lay his hand on him, and he ordered the slave to be brought to him; but the evil spirit could by no means be brought out of the room in which he was, so fiercely did he rage with his teeth at those who approached. Then Taetradius threw himself at the blessed man's knees, begging him to go down himself to the house where the possessed man was kept. But Martin said that he could not enter the house of a profane man and a pagan; for Taetradius at that time was still entangled in the error of paganism. So he promised that if the demon were driven out of the boy he would become a Christian. Then Martin laid his hand on the boy and cast the unclean spirit out of him. Seeing this, Taetradius believed in the Lord Jesus; he at once became a catechumen, was baptized not long afterwards, and always revered Martin with remarkable affection as the author of his salvation. About the same time, in the same town, entering the house of a certain head of a household, he stopped on the very threshold, saying that he saw a horrible demon in the forecourt of the house. When he ordered it to depart, it seized the head of the household, who was in the inner part of the house, and the wretched man began to rage with his teeth and to tear at everyone he met. The house was in uproar, the household in confusion, and the people put to flight. Martin threw himself in the way of the madman and first ordered him to stand still. But when he gnashed his teeth and threatened to bite with gaping mouth, Martin put his fingers into his mouth and said: "If you have any power, devour these." Then, as if he had taken red-hot iron into his throat, he drew his teeth far back and avoided touching the blessed man's fingers; and when by punishments and torments the demon was compelled to flee from the possessed body, and yet was not allowed to go out through the mouth, it was expelled through a flux of the bowels, leaving foul traces behind.

Meanwhile, when a sudden rumour of a movement and attack of barbarians had thrown the city into alarm, he ordered a possessed man to be brought before him and commanded him to confess whether this report was true. Then the man confessed that there had been ten demons with him who had spread this rumour among the people, so that by this fear at least Martin might be driven from that town: the barbarians were thinking of anything rather than an invasion. When the unclean spirit confessed this in the middle of the church, the city was freed from its present fear and turmoil. At Paris, as he was entering the gate of that city with great crowds going with him, he kissed a leper of pitiable appearance, while all shuddered, and blessed him; and at once the man was cleansed of all his disease. The next day he came to the church with shining skin and gave thanks for the health he had received. Nor should it be passed over that threads pulled from his garment and his hair shirt worked frequent miracles on the sick. For tied to fingers or hung round the neck they often drove away diseases from those who were ill.

Arborius, a man of prefectural rank and of very holy and faithful character, when his daughter was burning with the most severe quartan fevers, placed on the girl's breast, at the very onset of the fever, a letter of Martin's that had happened to be brought to him, and at once the fever was put to flight. This had such an effect on Arborius that he immediately vowed the girl to God and dedicated her to perpetual virginity; and going to Martin, he presented the girl to him as a living witness to his miracles, since she had been healed by him though he was absent; nor would he allow her to be consecrated by anyone other than Martin, who invested her with the dress of virginity. Paulinus, a man who was later to become a great example, had begun to suffer severely in one eye, and a thick film had already spread over and covered the pupil; Martin touched his eye with a fine brush and restored it to its former health, removing all pain. Martin himself, when by some accident he had fallen from an upper room and, tumbling down the rough steps of the stair, had received many wounds, lay half-dead in his cell, tormented by excessive pains; in the night an angel appeared to him, washing his wounds and anointing the bruises of his battered body with a healing salve; and so on the next day he was restored to health, so that one would have thought he had suffered no harm at all. But it would take long to go through them one by one; let these few out of very many suffice, and let it be enough that we neither withhold the truth in outstanding matters nor weary the reader with many.

And to insert lesser things among such great ones — although, given the character of our times, when everything is now depraved and corrupt, it is almost exceptional that a bishop's firmness should not have yielded to flattery of the emperor — when many bishops from different parts of the world had gathered at the court of the emperor Maximus, a man of fierce temper and elated by his victory in civil wars, and the shameful flattery of all towards the ruler was remarked, and the dignity of bishops had, with degenerate inconstancy, subjected itself to be the emperor's clients, apostolic authority remained in Martin alone. For even when he had to plead with the emperor on behalf of some, he commanded rather than asked; and though frequently invited to his banquets, he stayed away, saying that he could not share the table of a man who had deprived two emperors, one of his kingdom and the other of his life. At last, when Maximus asserted that he had not taken power of his own will, but had defended by arms the necessity of rule laid on him by the soldiers by divine will; that the will of God did not seem to be against a man to whom victory had come by so incredible an outcome; and that none of his adversaries had fallen except in battle — at length, overcome either by reason or by entreaties, Martin came to the banquet, to the wonderful joy of the emperor at having obtained this. The guests, as though summoned to a feast day, were men of the highest rank and distinction: Evodius, prefect and also consul, the most just man who ever lived, and two counts of the highest power, the emperor's brother and his uncle. Between these had reclined Martin's presbyter, while Martin himself had taken his seat on a stool placed next to the emperor. About the middle of the banquet, as is the custom, a servant offered the emperor a goblet. He ordered it to be given rather to the very holy bishop, expecting and hoping to receive the cup from his right hand. But when Martin had drunk, he handed the goblet to his presbyter, judging, of course, that no one was more worthy to drink first after himself, and that it would not be right for him to prefer either the emperor himself or those next to the emperor to the presbyter. The emperor and all who were present so admired this act that the very thing in which they had been slighted pleased them. And it was talked about throughout the palace that Martin had done at the emperor's dinner what no bishop had done at the banquets of the lowest magistrates. To this same Maximus he foretold long beforehand that if he went to Italy, as he wished to do, to make war on the emperor Valentinian, he should know that at the first onset he would be victorious, but that a little later he would perish. And we have seen this come to pass. For at his first arrival Valentinian was put to flight; then, about a year later, having regained his strength, he captured Maximus within the walls of Aquileia and put him to death.

It is also established that angels were very often seen by him, so that they conversed with one another in his presence. The devil, too, he had so visible and so subject to his eyes that, whether he kept to his own nature or had changed himself into the various shapes of spiritual wickedness, under whatever form he appeared he was seen by Martin. Since the devil knew that he could not escape him, he frequently assailed him with abuse, because he could not deceive him by snares. Once he burst into his cell with a great roar, holding a bloody ox horn in his hand; and showing his bloody right hand and rejoicing in a crime just committed, he said: "Where is your power, Martin? I have just killed one of your people." Then Martin called the brothers together and told them what the devil had disclosed; he ordered them to go anxiously through the cells of each to find out who had been struck by this misfortune. They reported that none of the monks was missing, but that a countryman hired for wages to bring down wood on a cart had gone to the forest. So he ordered some of them to go and meet him; and so he was found not far from the monastery, already almost dead. Yet drawing his last breath, he told the brothers the cause of his death and of his wound: while he was tightening the harness that had come loose on the yoked oxen, an ox had tossed its head and driven its horn into his groin. Not long afterwards he gave up his life. You must consider by what judgment of the Lord this power was given to the devil. What was wonderful in Martin was that not only this, which we related above, but many things of this kind, as often as they happened, he foresaw long before, or, when they were reported to him, disclosed them to the brothers.

Often the devil, trying with a thousand harmful arts to deceive the holy man, thrust himself on him visibly in the most varied forms. Sometimes he presented himself transformed into the person of Jupiter, often of Mercury, often too with the faces of Venus and Minerva. Against him Martin, always undaunted, protected himself with the sign of the cross and the help of prayer. Often abuse was heard with which a crowd of demons railed at him in insolent words; but knowing it all to be false and empty, he was not moved by what was thrown at him. Some of the brothers also testified that they had heard a demon railing at Martin in insolent words, asking why he had received back into the monastery, after their conversion, some of the brothers who had once lost their baptism through various errors, and setting out the crimes of each. They said that Martin, opposing the devil, answered firmly that old sins are cleansed by the conduct of a better life, and that by the mercy of the Lord those who have ceased to sin are to be absolved from their sins. When the devil retorted that criminals had no claim to pardon, and that to those who had once fallen no clemency could be granted by the Lord, Martin is said to have cried out: "If you yourself, wretched one, would cease from persecuting men and repent of your deeds even now, when the day of judgment is near, I, truly trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ, would promise you mercy." O what a holy presumption on the Lord's mercy! In it, even if he could not give authority, he showed his love. And since our discourse has turned to the devil and his arts, it seems not out of place, though it is a digression, to relate something that happened, because there is in it a share of Martin's miracles, and a thing worthy of wonder will rightly be handed down to memory as an example of caution, should anything of the kind happen anywhere hereafter.

A certain Clarus, a young man of very noble birth, soon afterwards a presbyter and now blessed by a happy death, had left everything and betaken himself to Martin, and in a short time he rose to the highest summit of faith and of all virtues. When he had set up a hut for himself not far from the bishop's monastery and many brothers were staying with him, a certain young man named Anatolius came to him, feigning all humility and innocence under the profession of a monk, and lived for some time in common with the others. Then, as time went on, he began to say that angels regularly talked with him. When no one believed him, he pressed many to believe by certain signs. At last he went so far as to proclaim that messengers passed to and fro between him and God, and he now wished to be held one of the prophets. Clarus, however, could by no means be brought to believe. Anatolius threatened him with the wrath of the Lord and immediate plagues for not believing a saint. At last he is said to have burst out with these words: "See, this night the Lord will give me a white garment from heaven, and clothed in it I shall dwell in your midst; and this will be a sign to you that the power of God is in me, since I have been presented with the garment of God." Then all waited eagerly for this claim to be fulfilled. About midnight the whole monastery seemed to be shaken by the noise of people stamping on the ground; and you could have seen the cell in which the young man was staying flash with frequent lights, and the noise of people running about in it and a murmur of many voices was heard. Then, when silence had fallen, he came out and called one of the brothers to him and showed him the tunic he was wearing. Astonished, the man called the others; Clarus himself also ran up, and bringing a light they all examined the garment carefully. It was of the greatest softness, of exceptional whiteness, and of gleaming purple, and yet it could not be recognized of what material or fleece it was; examined by curious eyes or fingers, however, it seemed nothing other than a garment. Meanwhile Clarus urged the brothers to persist in prayer, so that the Lord might show them more clearly what it was. So the rest of the night was spent in hymns and psalms. When day dawned, Clarus took him by the right hand and wanted to drag him to Martin, knowing well that Martin could not be deceived by the devil's art. Then the wretch began to resist and protest, saying that he had been forbidden to show himself to Martin. And when they forced him to go against his will, the garment vanished between the hands of those dragging him. Who, then, could doubt that this too was Martin's power, that the devil could no longer disguise or conceal his illusion when it was about to be brought before Martin's eyes?

It was noticed, however, that at about the same time there was a young man in Spain who, having gained authority for himself by many signs, was so puffed up that he declared himself to be Elijah. When many rashly believed this, he went further and said that he was Christ; and in this he deceived so far that a certain bishop named Rufus worshipped him as God, for which we afterwards saw him deposed from his episcopate. Many of the brothers also told us that at the same time someone arose in the East who boasted that he was John. From this we can conclude that, since false prophets of this kind are appearing, the coming of Antichrist is imminent, who is already working in them the mystery of iniquity. It seems that we should not pass over with what art the devil tempted Martin in those same days. For one day, preceded by a glow and himself surrounded with a purple light, so that he might more easily deceive by the brightness of the splendour he had assumed, clothed also in a royal robe, crowned with a diadem of gems and gold, his shoes overlaid with gold, with a serene expression and a joyful face, so that he might be thought anything rather than the devil, he stood beside Martin as he was praying in his cell. When Martin was dazed at the first sight of him, they both kept a long, deep silence. Then the devil spoke first: "Recognize, Martin, whom you see: I am Christ. As I am about to descend to earth, I wished first to manifest myself to you." When Martin kept silent at this and made no reply, the devil dared to repeat his bold claim: "Martin, why do you hesitate to believe, when you see? I am Christ." Then Martin, the Spirit revealing to him that it was the devil and not the Lord, said: "The Lord Jesus did not foretell that he would come clothed in purple or glittering with a diadem. I will not believe that Christ has come unless he comes in the dress and form in which he suffered, unless he bears the marks of the cross." At these words he at once vanished like smoke and filled the cell with such a stench that he left unmistakable proof that he had been the devil. This event, as I said above, I learned from Martin's own lips, so that no one may think it a fable.

For when some time ago, having heard of his faith, his life, and his virtue, we were burning with desire for him, we undertook a pilgrimage, pleasant to us, to see him. At the same time, because my mind was already on fire to write his life, we inquired partly from him himself, as far as he could be questioned, and partly learned from those who had been present or knew. At that time it is beyond belief with what humility and kindness he received me, congratulating himself greatly and rejoicing in the Lord that he was so highly esteemed by us that we had undertaken a pilgrimage to seek him out. Wretch that I am — I hardly dare confess it — when he deigned to admit me to his holy table, he himself offered water for our hands, and in the evening he himself washed our feet. Nor had I the firmness to resist or oppose him: I was so overborne by his authority that I would have thought it wrong not to comply. His talk with us was of nothing else than that the allurements of the world and the burdens of this age must be left behind, so that we might follow the Lord Jesus free and unencumbered. He pressed on us as the most outstanding example of our times that of the illustrious Paulinus, whom we mentioned above, who, having cast away the greatest wealth, had followed Christ and was almost alone in these times in having fulfilled the precepts of the gospel. He cried out that we should follow him, that we should imitate him; that the present age was blessed in having so great a proof of faith and virtue, since, according to the Lord's saying, a rich man who possessed much had, by selling everything and giving to the poor, made possible by his example what was impossible to do. And in his words and conversation how great was his seriousness, how great his dignity! How keen, how forceful he was, how ready and easy in solving questions about the Scriptures! And because I know that many are incredulous on this point — I have seen them disbelieve even when I myself was telling it — I call Jesus and our common hope to witness that I have never heard from anyone's lips so much knowledge, so much goodness, and such pure speech. Yet among Martin's virtues how small is this praise! Except that it is remarkable that even this grace was not lacking in an unlettered man.

But now the book calls for an end; the discourse must be closed. Not because everything that should be said about Martin has been exhausted, but because we, like slack poets who grow careless at the end of their work, give way, overcome by the weight of the material. For although his deeds could be set out in words after a fashion, his inner life, his daily conduct, and his mind always intent on heaven — I say it truly — no speech will ever set out. That perseverance and moderation in abstinence and fasting, that strength in vigils and prayers, the nights he spent just like the days, and no time free from the work of God in which he indulged in leisure or business, not even in food or sleep except as far as nature's necessity compelled — truly I will confess it: not even if Homer himself, as they say, were to rise from the dead could he set it out; so much greater is everything in Martin than can be expressed in words. Never did an hour or a moment pass in which he was not either giving himself to prayer or applying himself to reading; and even while reading, or if he happened to be doing anything else, he never relaxed his mind from prayer. Just as blacksmiths are accustomed, while they work, to strike their anvil as a kind of relief from their labour, so Martin, even when he seemed to be doing something else, was always praying. O truly blessed man, in whom there was no guile: judging no one, condemning no one, rendering to no one evil for evil. He had taken on such patience against all injuries that, though he was the chief bishop, he was injured with impunity even by the lowest clergy, and yet he never removed them from their place on that account, nor, as far as it lay with him, excluded them from his love.

No one ever saw him angry, no one agitated, no one grieving, no one laughing: he was always one and the same, and, bearing on his face a kind of heavenly joy, he seemed beyond the nature of man. Never was anything on his lips but Christ, never anything in his heart but piety, peace, and mercy. Often, too, he used to weep for the sins of those who seemed to be his detractors, who, while he lived withdrawn and quiet, pulled him to pieces with poisonous tongues and viper's mouths. And truly we have known some who envied his virtue and life, who hated in him what they did not see in themselves and could not imitate. And — O wickedness to be lamented and bewailed! — his persecutors, though they were very few, were said to be almost none other than bishops. There is no need to name anyone, although many of them snarl round us too; it will be enough that if any of them reads this and recognizes himself, he should blush. For if he is angry, he will be admitting that it was said of him, when perhaps we had others in mind. We do not shrink, however, from being hated, if there are any such, together with such a man. This I readily trust: that this little work will be welcome to all the saints. For the rest, if anyone reads it without faith, he himself will sin. I am conscious that I, moved by faith in the facts and by the love of Christ to write, have set out what is evident and said what is true; and a reward, I hope, will be prepared by God, not for whoever reads, but for whoever believes.