not
the barriers wherewith it is surrounded; but even as He ordered it,
so it doeth. For He said, "so far shalt thou come, and thy waves
shall be broken within thee." The ocean which is impassable for men,
and the worlds beyond it, are directed by the same ordinances of the
Master. The seasons of spring and summer and autumn and winter give
way in succession one to another in peace. The winds in their several
quarters at their proper seasons fulfil their ministry without
disturbance, and the overflowing fountains, created for enjoyment and
health, without fail give their breasts which sustain the life for
men. Yea, the smallest of living things come together in concord and
peace.'[1]

The three great Cappadocians, the most representative of the Greek
Fathers and leaders of the fourth century, wrote about the scenery
round them in a tone of sentimentality not less astonishing, in view
of the prejudice which denies all feeling for Nature to the Middle
Ages, than their broad humanity and free handling of dogma.

It was no ascetic renouncing the world and solitude[2]; but rather a
sensitive man, thoughtful and dreamy at once, who wrote as follows
(Basil the Great to Gregory Nazianzen):

It is a lofty mountain overshadowed with a deep wood, irrigated
on the north by cold and transparent streams. At its foot is
spread a low plain, enriched perpetually with the streams from
the mountains. The wood, a virgin forest of trees of various
kinds and foliage which grows around it, almost serves it as a
rampart; so that even the Isle of Calypso, which Homer evidently
admired as a paragon of loveliness, is nothing in comparison with
this. For indeed it is very nearly an island, from its being
enclosed on all sides with rocky boundaries. On two sides of it
are deep and precipitous ravines, and on another side the river
flowing from the steep is itself a continuous and almost
impassable barrier. The mountain range, with its moon-shaped
windings, walls off the accessible parts of the plain. There is
but one entrance, of which we are the masters. My hut is built on
another point, which uplifts a lofty pinnacle on the summit, so
that this plain is outspread before the gaze, and from the height
I can catch a glimpse of the river flowing round, which to my
fancy affords no less delight than the view of the Strymore as
you look from Amphipolis. For the Strymore bro