Chapter LXXXIII: Book VI: The Winter Walk at Noon (9)

No, let me rather freely yield
What most I prize to thee;
Who never hast a good withheld,
Or wilt withhold, from me.

Thy favour, all my journey through,
Thou art engaged to grant;
What else I want, or think I do,
'Tis better still to want.

Wisdom and mercy guide my way,
Shall I resist them both?
A poor blind creature of a day,
And crush'd before the moth!

But ah! my inward spirit cries,
Still bind me to thy sway;
Else the next cloud that veils the skies,
Drives all these thoughts away.

XLV. THE HAPPY CHANGE.

How blest thy creature is, O God,
When, with a single eye,
He views the lustre of thy word,
The dayspring from on high!

Through all the storms that veil the skies,
And frown on earthly things,
The Sun of Righteousness he eyes,
With healing on his wings.

Struck by that light, the human heart,
A barren soil no more,
Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad,
Where serpents lurk'd before.[901]

The soul a dreary province once
Of Satan's dark domain,
Feels a new empire form'd within,
And owns a heavenly reign.

The glorious orb, whose golden beams
The fruitful year control,
Since first, obedient to thy word,
He started from the goal;

Has cheer'd the nations with the joys
His orient rays impart;
But, Jesus, 'tis thy light alone
Can shine upon the heart.

[901] Isaiah xxxv. 7.

XLVI. RETIREMENT.

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow thee.

There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and Guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And (all harmonious names in one)
My Saviour, thou art mine!

What thanks I owe thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more.

XLVII. THE HIDDEN LIFE.

To tell the Saviour all my wants,
How pleasing is the task!
Nor less to praise him when he grants
Beyond what I can ask.

My labouring spirit vainly seeks
To tell but half the joy;
With how much tenderness he speaks,
And helps me to reply.

Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
Such secrets to declare;
Like precious wines their tastes they lose,
Exposed to open air.

But this with boldness I proclaim,
Nor care if thousands hear,
Sweet is the ointment of his name,
Not life is half so dear.

And can you frown, my former friends,
Who knew what once I was;
And blame the song that thus commends
The Man who bore the cross?

Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
And not as fancy paints;
Such honour may he give to you,
For such have all his saints.

XLVIII. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING.

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing in his wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after rain.

In holy contemplation,
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation,
And find it ever new.
Set free from present sorrow
We cheerfully can say,
E'en let the unknown to-morrow[902]
Bring with it what it may.

It can bring with it nothing,
But he will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing,
Will clothe his people too;
Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And he who feeds the ravens,
Will give his children bread.

The vine nor fig-tree neither[903]
Their wonted fruit should bear,
Though all the field should wither,
Nor flocks nor herds be there:
Yet God the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice;
For, while in him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.

[902] Matthew vi. 34.

[903] Habakkuk iii. 17, 18.

XLIX. TRUE PLEASURES.

Lord, my soul with pleasure springs,
When Jesus' name I hear;
And when God the Spirit brings
The word of promise near:
Beauties too, in holiness,
Still delighted I perceive;
Nor have words that can express
The joys thy precepts give.

Clothed in sanctity and grace,
How sweet it is to see
Those who love thee as they pass,
Or when they wait on thee:
Pleasant too, to sit and tell
What we owe to love divine;
Till our bosoms grateful swell,
And eyes begin to shine.

Those the comforts I possess,
Which God shall still increase,
All his ways are pleasantness,[904]
And all his paths are peace.
Nothing Jesus did or spoke,
Henceforth let me ever slight;
For I love his easy yoke,[905]
And find his burden light.

[904] Prov. iii. 17.

[905] Matt. xi. 30.

L. THE CHRISTIAN.

Honour and happiness unite
To make the Christian's name a praise;
How fair the scene, how clear the light,
That fills the remnant of his days!

A kingly character he bears,
No change his priestly office knows;
Unfading is the crown he wears,
His joys can never reach a close.

Adorn'd with glory from on high,
Salvation shines upon his face;
His robe is of the ethereal dye,
His steps are dignity and grace.

Inferior honours he disdains,
Nor stoops to take applause from earth:
The King of kings himself maintains
The expenses of his heavenly birth.

The noblest creature seen below,
Ordain'd to fill a throne above;
God gives him all he can bestow,
His kingdom of eternal love!

My soul is ravish'd at the thought!
Methinks from earth I see him rise!
Angels congratulate his lot,
And shout him welcome to the skies!

LI. LIVELY HOPE AND GRACIOUS FEAR.

I was a grovelling creature once,
And basely cleaved to earth;
I wanted spirit to renounce
The clod that gave me birth.

But God has breath'd upon a worm,
And sent me, from above,
Wings such as clothe an angel's form,
The wings of joy and love.

With these to Pisgah's top I fly,
And there delighted stand,
To view beneath a shining sky
The spacious promised land.

The Lord of all the vast domain
Has promised it to me;
The length and breadth of all the plain,
As far as faith can see.

How glorious is my privilege!
To thee for help I call;
I stand upon a mountain's edge,
Oh save me, lest I fall!

Though much exalted in the Lord,
My strength is not my own;
Then let me tremble at his word,
And none shall cast me down.

LII. FOR THE POOR.

When Hagar found the bottle spent,
And wept o'er Ishmael,
A message from the Lord was sent
To guide her to a well.[906]

Should not Elijah's cake and cruse[907]
Convince us at this day,
A gracious God will not refuse
Provisions by the way?

His saints and servants shall be fed,
The promise is secure;
"Bread shall be given them," he has said,
"Their water shall be sure."[908]

Repasts far richer they shall prove,
Than all earth's dainties are;
'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love,
Though in the meanest fare.

To Jesus then your trouble bring,
Nor murmur at your lot;
While you are poor and he is King,
You shall not be forgot.

[906] Gen. xxi. 19.

[907] 1 Kings xvii. 14.

[908] Isa. xxxiii. 16.

LIII. MY SOUL THIRSTETH FOR GOD.

I thirst, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share;
Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasures there.

It was the sight of thy dear cross
First wean'd my soul from earthly things;
And taught me to esteem as dross
The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.

Dear fountain of delight unknown!
No longer sink below the brim;
But overflow, and pour me down
A living and life-giving stream!

For sure, of all the plants that share
The notice of thy Father's eye,
None proves less grateful to his care,
Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

LIV. LOVE CONSTRAINING TO OBEDIENCE.

No strength of nature can suffice
To serve the Lord aright:
And what she has she misapplies,
For want of clearer light.

How long beneath the law I lay
In bondage and distress!
I toil'd the precept to obey,
But toil'd without success.

Then, to abstain from outward sin
Was more than I could do;
Now, if I feel its power within,
I feel I hate it too.

Then, all my servile works were done
A righteousness to raise;
Now, freely chosen in the Son,
I freely choose his ways.

"What shall I do," was then the word,
"That I may worthier grow?"
"What shall I render to the Lord?"
Is my inquiry now.

To see the law by Christ fulfill'd,
And hear his pardoning voice,
Changes a slave into a child,[909]
And duty into choice.

[909] Romans iii. 31.

LV. THE HEART HEALED AND CHANGED BY MERCY.

Sin enslaved me many years,
And led me bound and blind;
Till at length a thousand fears
Came swarming o'er my mind.
"Where," I said, in deep distress,
"Will these sinful pleasures end?
How shall I secure my peace,
And make the Lord my friend?"

Friends and ministers said much
The gospel to enforce;
But my blindness still was such,
I chose a legal course:
Much I fasted, watch'd, and strove,
Scarce would show my face abroad,
Fear'd almost to speak or move,
A stranger still to God.

Thus afraid to trust his grace,
Long time did I rebel;
Till, despairing of my case.
Down at his feet I fell:
Then my stubborn heart he broke,
And subdued me to his sway;
By a simple word he spoke,
"Thy sins are done away."

LVI. HATRED OF SIN.

Holy Lord God! I love thy truth,
Nor dare thy least commandment slight;
Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth,
I mourn the anguish of the bite.

But, though the poison lurks within,
Hope bids me still with patience wait;
Till death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the only thing I hate.

Had I a throne above the rest,
Where angels and archangels dwell,
One sin, unslain, within my breast,
Would make that heaven as dark as hell.

The prisoner, sent to breathe fresh air,
And bless'd with liberty again,
Would mourn, were he condemned to wear
One link of all his former chain.

But, oh! no foe invades the bliss,
When glory crowns the Christian's head;
One view of Jesus as he is
Will strike all sin for ever dead.

LVII. THE NEW CONVERT.

The new-born child of gospel grace,
Like some fair tree when summer's nigh,
Beneath Emmanuel's shining face
Lifts up his blooming branch on high.

No fears he feels, he sees no foes,
No conflict yet his faith employs,
Nor has he learnt to whom he owes
The strength and peace his soul enjoys.

But sin soon darts its cruel sting,
And comforts sinking day by day:
What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring,
Proves but a brook that glides away.

When Gideon arm'd his numerous host,
The Lord soon made his numbers less;
And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast,[910]
'My arm procured me this success,'"

Thus will he bring our spirits down,
And draw our ebbing comforts low,
That, saved by grace, but not our own,
We may not claim the praise we owe.

[910] Judges vii. 2.

LVIII. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS.

O God, whose favourable eye
The sin-sick soul revives,
Holy and heavenly is the joy
Thy shining presence gives.

Not such as hypocrites suppose,
Who with a graceless heart
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose,
Prepared by Satan's art.

Intoxicating joys are theirs,
Who, while they boast their light,
And seem to soar above the stars,
Are plunging into night.

Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep,
They sin, and yet rejoice;
Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep,
Would they not hear his voice?

Be mine the comforts that reclaim
The soul from Satan's power;
That make me blush for what I am,
And hate my sin the more.

'Tis joy enough, my All in All,
At thy dear feet to lie;
Thou wilt not let me lower fall,
And none can higher fly.

LIX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH.

The Lord receives his highest praise
From humble minds and hearts sincere;
While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judge's ear.

To walk as children of the day,
To mark the precepts' holy light,
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.

Not words alone it cost the Lord,
To purchase pardon for his own;
Nor will a soul, by grace restored,
Return the Saviour words alone.

With golden bells, the priestly vest,
And rich pomegranates border'd round,[911]
The need of holiness express'd,
And call'd for fruit, as well as sound.

Easy, indeed, it were to reach
A mansion in the courts above,
If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve, instead of faith and love.

But none shall gain the blissful place,
Or God's unclouded glory see,
Who talks of free and sovereign grace,
Unless that grace has made him free!

[911] Exod. xxviii. 33.

LX. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL.

Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace,
In this licentious day;
And while they boast they see thy face,
They turn their own away.

Thy book displays a gracious light
That can the blind restore;
But these are dazzled by the sight,
And blinded still the more.

The pardon, such presume upon,
They do not beg, but steal;
And when they plead it at thy throne,
Oh! where's the Spirit's seal?

Was it for this, ye lawless tribe,
The dear Redeemer bled?
Is this the grace the saints imbibe
From Christ the living head?

Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few
Are fed with heavenly fare;
But these, the wretched husks they chew
Proclaim them what they are.

The liberty our hearts implore
Is not to live in sin;
But still to wait at wisdom's door,
Till mercy calls us in.

LXI. THE NARROW WAY.

What thousands never knew the road!
What thousands hate it when 'tis known!
None but the chosen tribes of God
Will seek or choose it for their own.

A thousand ways in ruin end,
One, only, leads to joys on high;
By that my willing steps ascend,
Pleased with a journey to the sky.

No more I ask, or hope to find,
Delight or happiness below;
Sorrow may well possess the mind
That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.

The joy that fades is not for me,
I seek immortal joys above;
There glory without end shall be
The bright reward of faith and love.

Cleave to the world, ye sordid worms,
Contented lick your native dust,
But God shall fight with all his storms
Against the idol of your trust.

LXII. DEPENDENCE.

To keep the lamp alive,
With oil we fill the bowl;
'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.

The Lord's unsparing hand
Supplies the living stream;
It is not at our own command,
But still derived from him.

Beware of Peter's word,[912]
Nor confidently say,
"I never will deny thee, Lord,"
But, "Grant I never may!"

Man's wisdom is to seek
His strength in God alone;
And e'en an angel would be weak,
Who trusted in his own.

Retreat beneath his wings,
And in his grace confide;
This more exalts the King of kings[913]
Than all your works beside.

In Jesus is our store,
Grace issues from his throne;
Whoever says, "I want no more,"
Confesses he has none.

[912] Matthew xxvi. 33.

[913] John vi. 29.

LXIII. NOT OF WORKS.

Grace, triumphant in the throne,
Scorns a rival, reigns alone;
Come and bow beneath her sway,
Cast your idol works away.
Works of man, when made his plea,
Never shall accepted be;
Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!)
Are the best he can perform.

Self, the god his soul adores,
Influences all his powers;
Jesus is a slighted name,
Self-advancement all his aim:
But when God the Judge shall come,
To pronounce the final doom,
Then for rocks and hills to hide
All his works and all his pride!

Still the boasting heart replies,
What! the worthy and the wise,
Friends to temperance and peace,
Have not these a righteousness?
Banish every vain pretence
Built on human excellence;
Perish every thing in man,
But the grace that never can.

LXIV. PRAISE FOR FAITH.

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!
Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemer's blood.

Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain;
Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.

Till thou thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemper'd eye,
Shut out the view of thee.

Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What misery we endure!
Yet fly that hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.

We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;
The precious Saviour, and the power
That makes him precious too.

LXV. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE.

Almighty King! whose wondrous hand
Supports the weight of sea and land,
Whose grace is such a boundless store,
No heart shall break that sighs for more.

Thy providence supplies my food,
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;
My soul is nourish'd by thy word,
Let soul and body praise the Lord.

My streams of outward comfort came
From him who built this earthly frame;
Whate'er I want his bounty gives,
By whom my soul for ever lives.

Either his hand preserves from pain,
Or, if I feel it, heals again;
From Satan's malice shields my breast,
Or overrules it for the best.

Forgive the song that falls so low
Beneath the gratitude I owe!
It means thy praise, however poor,
An angel's song can do no more.

LXVI. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES.

Winter has a joy for me,
While the Saviour's charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snowdrop's pensive head.

Spring returns, and brings along
Life-invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
Seems to speak his dying groans!

Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of his worth;
'Tis his sun that lights and warms,
His the air that cools the earth.

What! has Autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.

Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See his bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.

Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shows an emblem of his grace,
Points to an eternal rest.

LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST.

To Jesus, the Crown of my hope,
My soul is in haste to be gone:
O bear me, ye cherubim, up,
And waft me away to his throne!

My Saviour, whom absent I love,
Whom, not having seen, I adore;
Whose name is exalted above
All glory, dominion, and power;

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain
My soul from her portion in thee;
Ah! strike off this adamant chain
And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,
When array'd in thy glories I shine,
Nor grieve any more, by my sins,
The bosom on which I recline:

O then shall the veil be remov'd,
And round me thy brightness be pour'd;
I shall meet him whom absent I lov'd,
I shall see whom unseen I ador'd.

And then, never more shall the fears,
The trials, temptations, and woes,
Which darken this valley of tears,
Intrude on my blissful repose.

Or, if yet remember'd above,
Remembrance no sadness shall raise;
They will be but new signs of thy love,
New themes for my wonder and praise.

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain
Shall set me eternally free,
Will but strengthen and rivet the chain,
Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee.

LXVIII. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,[914]
And scan his work in vain:
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

[914] John xiii. 7.

BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION,

AND OF

THE MYSTIC WRITERS.

The mystic writers, though the object of so much public attention in France, towards the close of the seventeenth century, have never attracted much notice in this country, and are known rather as a matter of historical fact than of personal interest. It is to Cowper that we are indebted for the translation of the Hymns of Madame Guion, the founder, or rather reviver, of the Mystics; for it is evident from ecclesiastical history that they existed so early as in the third and fourth centuries, and that the habits of profound contemplation and retirement from the world, in which they indulged, led to the monastic seclusion of which St. Anthony was the most eminent example. Dionysius the Areopagite is, however, generally considered to be the founder of this sect in the fourth century. Macarius and Hilarion are also included among its supporters. The celebrated Thomas à Kempis, in the fifteenth century, adopted a kind of purified mysticism. Molino, a Spanish priest, though resident at Rome, still further extended these views; till at length Madame Guion, in the reign of Louis XIV. embodied them in their present form, which is known in France under the name of Quietism, from the calm repose and indifference to external objects which is characteristic of these principles.

The Mystics professed to elevate the soul above all sensible and terrestrial objects, and to unite it to the Deity in an ineffable manner; to inculcate a pure and absolutely disinterested love of God, for his own sake, and on account of his adorable perfections; to maintain a close and intimate communion with him by mortifying all the senses, by a profound submission to his will, even under the consciousness of perdition, and by an internal sanctity of heart, strengthened by a holy and sublime contemplation. We shall shortly examine this system, and inquire how far this indifference to salvation, from a supposed conformity to the will of God, is founded either on reason or Scripture; and whether the pure love of God, independent of his love to us, and of our personal interest in the blessings of redemption, is a state of mind to be generally attained.

But we shall first advert to the manner in which Madame Guoion was led to embrace these views, and illustrate them by a reference to her own writings. After endeavouring, by unceasing efforts, and many acts of external piety, to raise her mind to a high tone of religious perfection, without being able to attain it, she meets with an ecclesiastic of the order of St. Francis, and requests him to explain the cause of this failure. His reply, and the remarkable consequences by which it was followed, is thus recorded by herself in the narrative of her own life. "_It is, madam, because you seek WITHOUT what you have WITHIN. Accustom yourself to seek God in your heart, and you will there find him._"

"Having said these words, he left me. They were to me like the stroke of a dart, which penetrated through my heart. I felt at this instant a very deep wound, a wound so delightful that I desired not to be cured. These words brought into my heart what I had been seeking so many years; or rather, they discovered to me what was there, and which I had not enjoyed for want of knowing it. Oh my Lord! thou wast in my heart, and demandedst only a simple turning of my mind inward, to make me perceive thy presence. Oh infinite Goodness! How was I running hither and thither to seek thee; my life was a burden to me, though my happiness was in myself. I was poor in the midst of riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near a table plentifully spread, and a continual feast. Oh Beauty, ancient and new! Why have I known thee so late! Alas! I sought thee where thou wast not, and did not seek thee where thou wast. It was for want of understanding these words of thy gospel, 'The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: neither shall they say, Lo here, or Lo there. For behold the kingdom of God is within you.' This I experienced; for thou becamest my king, and my heart thy kingdom, wherein thou didst reign supreme, and perform all thy sacred will."

Hours, she observes, now passed away like moments, and she could hardly do any thing else but pray. She enters at the same time upon a strict course of penances, deprives herself of the most innocent indulgences, and succeeds so far that she could scarcely prefer one thing to another. Her senses are severely mortified, and kept under uniform restraint. She aims at nothing less than the death of the senses, and the utter extinction of self. "It is only by a total death to self," she remarks, "that we can be lost in God."

At length these continual efforts become painful to her, and she is far from realizing either inward peace or the grace of true holiness. In describing her state of mind, she observes:

"I began to experience an insupportable weight, in that very piety which had formerly been so easy and delightful to me; not that I did not love it extremely, but I found myself defective in that noble practice of it to which I aspired. The more I loved it, the more I laboured to acquire what I saw I failed in. But alas! I seemed continually to be overcome by that which was contrary to it. My heart, indeed, was detached from all sensual pleasures. For these several years past it has seemed to me that my mind is so detached and absent from the body, that I do things as if I did them not. If I eat or refresh myself, it is done with such an absence, or separation, as I wonder at, and with an entire mortification of the keenness of sensation in all the natural functions."

In addition to this dissatisfaction with herself, it is her lot to be married to a man who is strongly opposed to her views and principles. Her domestic trials aggravate her wretchedness, and she enjoys peace neither in herself, in others, nor in God.

"I could now no longer pray as formerly. Heaven seemed shut to me, and I thought justly too. I could get no consolation, nor make any complaint thereupon; nor had I any creature on earth to apply to, or to whom I might impart my condition. I found myself banished from all beings, without finding a support or refuge in any thing. I could no more practise any virtue with facility. Such as had formerly been familiar to me seemed now to have left me. 'Alas!' said I, 'is it possible that this heart, formerly all on fire, should now become like ice?' Laden with a weight of past sins, and a multitude of new ones, I could not think God would ever pardon me, but looked on myself as a victim of hell. Whatever I tried for a remedy, seemed only to increase the malady. I may say that tears were my drink, and sorrow my food. I had within myself an executioner who tortured me without respite."

We believe the case of Madame Guion to be by no means singular. Many aim at high attainments in religion, with the utmost sincerity of intention, but, being ignorant of the true way of peace, to which a more scriptural view would infallibly lead them, they load the conscience with heavy burdens, till it sinks under the weight of the oppression. Peace of mind is not to be found in self-inflicted austerities, in overstrained efforts, nor even in the way of internal holiness. This is seeking the living among the dead. We first find God, not by what we try to do for ourselves, but in a firm reliance on what Christ the Lord has done for us. "He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." This is the only true ground of acceptance. This is the foundation laid in Zion. "He is our peace." Holiness follows, but does not go before; it is the effect, but not the cause. Mysticism inverts the order, and seems to give more honour to the sanctifying Spirit, than to a crucified Saviour and Redeemer.

However specious, therefore, the counsel given by the priest might seem to be, and powerfully as she was impressed by it for a season, yet it failed in imparting the whole truth. He led her to derive peace from contemplating Christ _within_; but true peace can flow only from contemplating Christ _without_. The "water" and the "blood" are emblematical of a _double_ operation. Each is necessary, Christ in the heart for sanctification, Christ on the cross for justification and pardon of sin. To neglect the latter, and to fix our inmost thoughts on the former only, what is it but to make a Saviour of sanctification, and to render the cross of none effect?

In the midst of her internal disquietude, the husband of Madame Guion dies. "At last," she writes, "after having passed twelve years and four months in the crosses of marriage, as great as possible, except poverty, which I never knew, though I had much desired it, God drew me out of that state to give me still stronger crosses to bear, and of such a nature as I had never met with before."

Her life from this period was a continual scene of trials and persecutions, to which her views and principles uniformly exposed her.

Relieved now from all external restraint, this devoted woman dedicates herself to the Lord by a solemn surrender, which she calls a marriage contract, and engages to live wholly to him and to his glory for the remainder of her days.

Her state of mind, and the joy and happiness which it led to, are thus expressed.

"At this time I found that I had the _perfect chastity_ of love to God, mine being without any reserve, division, or view of interest;--_perfect poverty_, by the total privation of every thing that was mine both inwardly and outwardly;--_perfect obedience to the will_ of God, _submission to the church_, _and honour to_ Jesus Christ in loving himself only."

"The joy which such a soul possesses in its God is so great, that it experiences the truth of those words of the royal prophet, 'All they who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons ravished with joy.' To such a soul the words of our Lord seem to be addressed, 'Your joy no man shall take from you.' John xvi. 22. It is as it were plunged in a river of peace: its prayer is continual: nothing can hinder it from praying to God, or from loving him. It amply verifies these words in the Canticles, 'I sleep, but my heart waketh;' for it finds that even sleep itself does not hinder it from praying. Oh, unutterable happiness! Who could ever have thought that a soul, which seemed to be in the utmost misery, should ever find a happiness equal to this? Oh happy _poverty_, happy _loss_, happy _nothingness_, which gives no less than God himself in his own immensity, no more circumscribed to the limited manner of the creature, but always drawing it out of that to plunge it wholly into his own divine essence.

"What then renders this soul so perfectly content? It neither knows, nor wants to know any thing but what God calls it to. Herein it enjoys divine content, after a manner vast, immense, independent of exterior events; more satisfied in its humiliation, and in the opposition of all creatures, by the order of Providence, than on the throne of its own choice.

"It is here that the apostolic life begins. But is every one called to that state? Very few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend; and of the few that are called to it fewer still walk in true purity."

This entire surrender of the soul to God, or self-abandonment, she thus describes.

"Abandonment is a matter of the greatest importance in our process; it is the key to the inner court; so that whosoever knoweth truly how to abandon himself, soon becomes perfect. We must, therefore, continue stedfast and immoveable therein, nor listen to the voice of natural reason. Great faith produces great abandonment; we must confide in God, 'hoping against hope.' (Rom. iv. 18.)

"Abandonment is the casting off all selfish care, that we may be altogether at the Divine disposal. All Christians are exhorted to this resignation; for it is said to all, 'Take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, what shall we drink? or, wherewithal shall we be clothed? for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.' (Matt. vi. 31, 32.) 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' (Prov. iii. 6.) 'Commit thy ways unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.' (Prov. xvi. 3.) 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.' (Psalm xxxvii. 5.)

"Our abandonment then should be as fully applied to external as internal things, giving up all our concerns into the hands of God, forgetting ourselves, and thinking only of him; by which the heart will remain always disengaged, free, and at peace. It is practised by continually losing our own will in the will of God; by renouncing every particular inclination as soon as it arises, however good it may appear, that we may stand in indifference with respect to ourselves, and only will that which God from eternity had willed; by being resigned in all things, whether for soul or body, whether for time or eternity; by leaving what is past in oblivion, what is to come to Providence, and devoting the present moment to God, which brings with itself God's eternal order, and it is as infallible a declaration to us of his will, as it is inevitable and common to all; by attributing nothing that befalls us to the creature, but regarding all things in God, and looking upon all, excepting only our sins, as infallibly proceeding from him. Surrender yourselves, then, to be led and disposed of just as God pleaseth, with respect both to your outward and inward state."

There is also another term, of frequent occurrence in Madame Guion's writings, called _the annihilation of the powers or senses_, (anéantissement des puissances,) by which she means that all the senses and passions are to be completely mortified and suppressed, in order that the soul, freed from the heavy incumbrance, may aspire to full and unrestrained communion with God.

Such is the outline of mysticism, which we have endeavoured to illustrate in her own words. Indiscriminate censure would be no less opposed to the real truth than indiscriminate praise.

The proselytes made to this doctrine in France were numerous, consisting of names distinguished by their piety and rank. Among these, she had the honour of including the great Fénélon, who, though he had too much taste and judgment to adopt the extremes of her system, listened with delight when she descanted before him, at the Hôtel de Beauvilliers, on the pure and disinterested love of God.[915]

[915] Life of Fénélon.

It was in vain that the celebrated Bishop of Meaux[916] exposed her doctrines with all the powers of his wit, aided by the splendour of his eloquence. Her persecutions awakened new interest. She was sent to the castle of Vincennes, as if she had been a prisoner of state.

[916] Bossuet.

There she employed her lonely hours in pouring out the effusions of her heart, in hymns expressive of her love to God, and of the fervour of her devotion. Some of these compositions, written under circumstances so interesting, we shall present to the reader. They are indebted for their English dress to the poet Cowper, and to the suggestion of the Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport Pagnell, who conceived that the spirit which they breathe could not fail to be congenial to a mind like his.

We shall now venture to offer a few remarks on this system.

What we admire in Madame Guion is, the purity of her heart, its incessant aspirations after holiness, its secret and close communion with God. These are qualifications in which there is reason to believe that the great bulk of professing Christians are greatly deficient. Religion, even among reflecting minds, partakes more of a philosophical than a spiritual character. The fire is in the intellect, the ice is in the heart. In the social circle, the essay, or review, how often is spiritual religion branded with the title of enthusiasm, and the wings of devotion clipped, lest she should soar with too lofty an elevation, and pass beyond the limits which a cold and calculating policy would prescribe.

Among others again, who are the professed followers of Christ, how far do all fall short in the sublime and devotional feeling of love to God! The higher attainments of Christian piety, the inward fervency of spirit, and the entire surrender of the soul, are not sufficiently realized. Men do not rise to the elevation of Bible Christianity. Religion is considered too much in the light of a struggle and a warfare, and too little as a state of inward repose and joy unspeakable and full of glory.

It is in this respect that we think the devotional spirit of Madame Guion may be contemplated with profit, if by a wise discrimination we can adopt what is excellent, and reject what is overstrained, legal, and visionary.

There is, however, a familiarity in her addresses to the Deity incompatible with the reverence due to a sense of his majesty and greatness. In exposing this objectionable part of her writings, Bossuet beautifully apostrophizes the seraphs, and entreats them to bring burning coals from the altar to purify his lips, lest they should have been defiled by the impurities which he had been obliged to record.[917]

[917] See Butler's Life of Fenelon.

With respect to the distinguishing feature of mysticism, the pure and disinterested love of God, for his own sake, and without any consideration of _self_, that the mind may, at particular seasons, rise to this degree of holy contemplation, we believe to be possible; but we are persuaded that such a state of feeling cannot be habitually sustained, and that it is beyond the general standard and capacities of human nature. God's love to us is recorded in the Scripture as the foundation of our love to him:--"We love him, because he first loved us." Even glorified spirits, whose devotion we may justly suppose to have attained its highest degree of perfection, are represented as making their own salvation the theme of adoring gratitude and praise. "For thou hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, and hast made us unto our God kings and priests." Besides, it is in the great work of redemption that the divine attributes are so gloriously displayed; that the most affecting appeals are made to our fears and hopes; and the most animating motives held forth for our obedience. Man's personal interest is therefore so interwoven with the display of the divine perfections, that the former can never be excluded without obscuring the glory of the very attributes which mysticism requires us to adore.

Again, the doctrine of the Mystics proposes the utter suppression of the passions of hope and fear; the annihilation, as it is called, of all our natural feelings, and an entire abstraction from the world.

The annihilation of our natural feelings, that the heart may be wholly filled with the love and contemplation of the Deity, is not possible, nor, if it were possible, would it be desirable, as we should cease, in that case, to be men, without acquiring the nature of angels. It is not the suppression, but the due control and consecration of our feelings to the purest ends that the Bible proposes; not the exclusion of what is human, but the admixture of what is divine. The apostles, though gifted with the Holy Ghost from heaven, were still "men of like passions with ourselves," and the Saviour who was transfigured on Mount Tabor, thirsted at the well of Sychar, and wept at the grave of Lazarus.

Nor is it abstraction from the world, but from its spirit, that the Bible enjoins as a duty on the Christian. "Let us open this wonderful book," observes an elegant writer, "where we may, we meet no mystical abstraction. We feel _our whole mind_ to be addressed at once; no faculty, active or passive, being left without its provision. Human nature is every where made to furnish the machinery, which may work most effectually on itself. To withdraw the mind from sensible ideas while reading the Bible, is absolutely impossible. It places real life before us, in all its most interesting and most impressive forms; and obliges us to converse with 'men of like passions with ourselves,' even while it is teaching us the way of God most perfectly.

"Instead of abstracting us from the world, it makes it a school of wisdom to us; and teaches us, by example as well as precept, to proceed in making it so daily to ourselves. We discover that while it is the scene of the devil's temptations, it is also the scene of God's providence; and that, as on the former account we must be ever vigilant against its seductions, so, on the latter account, we cannot but be deeply interested in its various movements, past, present, and future. To be regardless of these would be to overlook the volume of prophecy, as well as that kingdom of the Messiah upon earth, of whose gradual advancement the prophetic oracles chiefly treat, and in whose final triumph all their brightest rays concentre. It is not, therefore, a mystical escape from the world to which the Christian is called. His vocation is much more glorious; he is to keep himself 'unspotted from the world;' but he is to remain in it, that he may maintain, as far as in him lies, his Lord's right to it, and promote his interest in it. He is taught this by the Redeemer's last prayer for his followers: 'I pray _not_ that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil.' And he is still more fully instructed by our Lord's own example; who made every walk of human life the scene of his beneficence, and turned every object and occurrence into a means of the most interesting and deepest instruction."[918]

[918] See "Remains of Alexander Knox, Esq." vol. i. pp. 303, 304.

There is one more feature in mysticism entitled to be considered, because it was subsequently adopted by Fenelon, viz. the possibility of the soul acquiescing in its own destruction, if such were the will of God, from a profound submission to his will and a desire to promote his glory. But this supposition involves a manifest absurdity, because a profound submission to the will of God is a gracious principle, and how can the soul, which is under gracious impressions, ever be the object of perdition, or God be glorified in its destruction? The case of Moses, who prayed to be blotted out of the book which God had written, if the Israelites might be spared,[919] or that of St. Paul, who wished that he might be accursed, for the sake of his brethren, according to the flesh,[920]--these passages might be quoted; but they are to be considered as referring to the present and not to the future life, in reference to the latter of which they would be obviously repugnant to the justice and goodness of God.

[919] Exodus xxxii. 32.

[920] Scott and Henry both agree in this interpretation, viz. a
willingness to be treated as an Anathema, and to be cut off from
all church communion and privileges, but not to be eternally lost.

It is evident from what has been said, that the religious views of Madame Guion, excellent as they were in their principle, in so far as they inculcated the supreme love of God, profound submission to his will, the calm retirement of the soul, and deadness to the spirit of the world, were nevertheless too overstrained to be suited to the character and constitution of human nature. Wesley translated her life, and observes, "Such another Life as that of Madam Guion, I doubt whether the world ever saw. It contains an abundance of excellent things, uncommonly excellent; several things which are utterly false and unscriptural; nay, such as are dangerously false. As to Madam Guion herself, I believe she was not only a good woman, but good in an eminent degree; deeply devoted to God, and often favoured with uncommon communications of his Spirit."

The persecutions in which she was thus involved were unremitting and painful. Her doctrines underwent a solemn inquiry at Issy, before three commissioners appointed by Louis XIV. for that purpose: viz. the Bishop of Meaux, the Bishop of Chartres, (afterwards Cardinal de Noailles,) and M. Tronson, the Superior of the congregation of St. Sulpice. After a discussion which lasted six months, her writings received a formal condemnation, in which Fenelon refused to concur. By this apparent sanction of her principles, and still more by his celebrated "Maxims of the Saints," in which he incorporated the more spiritual part of her system, he exposed himself to a series of painful reverses. He was banished the court by Louis XIV., who probably never read his book, nor comprehended his principles, but who never forgave the author of Telemachus. By the same authority he was removed from the office of preceptor to the Dukes of Burgundy, Anjou, and Berri; and commanded to retire to Cambray, which he embellished with his exalted virtues. But a further scene of humiliation awaited him. His powerful opponent, the celebrated Bossuet, not content with attacking his writings, endeavoured to procure their condemnation at the court of Rome, which led to a _bon-mot_ of the Pope, that "Fenelon was in fault for too great love to God, and his enemies equally in fault for too little love of their neighbour." The Brief was at length obtained, though not without considerable delay and reluctance. Fenelon received this act of censure with calm serenity, and in obedience to papal authority, ascended his pulpit at Cambray with his Maxims in one hand and the Brief in the other. He then read the condemnation of his own book, amidst the tears and admiration of his congregation; thus evincing a magnanimity which rendered him greater in his defeat than his enemies appeared in their triumph.

Madame Guion spent ten years in prison, during which she composed many hymns, with poems on various spiritual subjects, filling no less than five octavo volumes. Speaking of the period of her imprisonment at Vincennes, she observes, "I passed my time in great peace, content to spend the rest of my life there, if such were the will of God. I sang songs of joy, which the maid who served me learned by heart, as fast as I made them: and we sang together thy praises, O my God! The stones of my prison looked in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them more than all the gaudy brilliancies of a vain world." We cannot state this fact without doing homage to the virtues of Madame Guion. The piety that could convert a prison into a sanctuary, and transform sufferings into an occasion for joy and thanksgiving, must have been elevated and sincere, however mingled with enthusiasm. Her doctrine of profound submission, under circumstances the most adverse, was no speculative thesis; it was evidently carried into the life and practice.

Who is not reminded by this act of what is recorded in the apostolical times? "And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God." The rigour of her persecutions, in our opinion, conveys a strong censure against her zealous but misguided opponents. But the case is by no means solitary. The world is always indulgent to the errors of our practice, but severe to the errors of our creed. True policy and humanity would have suggested a different course. Extravagances, when left to themselves, generally work their own cure; but, when visited with persecution, acquire dignity and importance, and never fail to awaken sympathy for the sufferers.

After her long imprisonment, Madam Guion lived a retired life for more than seven years at Blois, where she died June 9, 1717, in the seventieth year of her age, celebrated for her misfortunes and devotion, though her principles, which once convulsed France, and awakened the thunders of the Vatican, are now nearly forgotten.

The following selection from her poems, executed by Cowper, is highly devotional, and may be read with interest and edification. It exhibits a happy specimen of her religious views in their best form; and Cowper has given to them the charms of versification, united with a taste and discrimination that ensure their popularity. The poem on the Nativity is a sublime and bold composition, and proves that the piety which warms the heart, seldom fails to enlarge and invigorate the faculties of the mind.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION.

THE NATIVITY.