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.
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.
'Tis folly all—let me no more be told
Of Parian porticos, and roofs of gold;
Delightful views of nature, dress'd by art,
Enchant no longer this indifferent heart;
The Lord of all things, in his humble birth,
Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth;
The straw, the manger, and the mouldering wall,
Eclipse its lustre; and I scorn it all.
Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales,
Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never fails;
Deep-rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise,
Earth-born, and yet ambitious of the skies;
The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades,
Vainly the sun in all its power invades;
Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound,
Whose verdure lives while Winter scowls around;
Rocks, lofty mountains, caverns dark and deep,
And torrents raving down the rugged steep;
Smooth downs, whose fragrant herbs the spirits cheer;
Meads crown'd with flowers; streams musical and clear.
Whose silver waters, and whose murmurs, join
Their artless charms, to make the scene divine;
The fruitful vineyard, and the furrow'd plain,
That seems a rolling sea of golden grain:
All, all have lost the charms they once possess'd;
An infant God reigns sovereign in my breast;
From Bethlehem's bosom I no more will rove;
There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love.
Ye mightier rivers, that, with sounding force,
Urge down the valleys your impetuous course!
Winds, clouds, and lightnings! and, ye waves, whose heads,
Curl'd into monstrous forms, the seaman dreads!
Horrid abyss, where all experience fails,
Spread with the wreck of planks and shatter'd sails;
On whose broad back grim Death triumphant rides,
While havoc floats on all thy swelling tides,
Thy shores a scene of ruin strew'd around
With vessels bulged, and bodies of the drown'd!
Ye fish, that sport beneath the boundless waves,
And rest, secure from man, in rocky caves;
Swift-darting sharks, and whales of hideous size,
Whom all the aquatic world with terror eyes!
Had I but faith immoveable and true,
I might defy the fiercest storm, like you:
The world, a more disturb'd and boisterous sea,
When Jesus shows a smile, affrights not me;
He hides me, and in vain the billows roar,
Break harmless at my feet, and leave the shore.
Thou azure vault where, through the gloom of night,
Thick sown, we see such countless worlds of light!
Thou moon, whose car, encompassing the skies,
Restores lost nature to our wondering eyes;
Again retiring, when the brighter sun
Begins the course he seems in haste to run!
Behold him where he shines! His rapid rays,
Themselves unmeasured, measure all our days;
Nothing impedes the race he would pursue,
Nothing escapes his penetrating view,
A thousand lands confess his quickening heat,
And all he cheers are fruitful, fair, and sweet.
Far from enjoying what these scenes disclose,
I feel the thorn, alas! but miss the rose:
Too well I know this aching heart requires
More solid gold to fill its vast desires;
In vain they represent his matchless might,
Who call'd them out of deep primeval night;
Their form and beauty but augment my woe,
I seek the Giver of those charms they show:
Nor, Him beside, throughout the world he made,
Lives there in whom I trust for cure or aid.
Infinite God, thou great unrivall'd One!
Whose glory makes a blot of yonder sun;
Compar'd with thine, how dim his beauty seems,
How quench'd the radiance of his golden beams!
Thou art my bliss, the light by which I move;
In thee alone dwells all that I can love.
All darkness flies when thou art pleased to appear,
A sudden spring renews the fading year;
Where'er I turn I see thy power and grace
The watchful guardians of our heedless race;
Thy various creatures in one strain agree,
All, in all times and places, speak of thee;
E'en I, with trembling heart and stammering tongue,
Attempt thy praise, and join the general song.
Almighty Former of this wondrous plan,
Faintly reflected in thine image, man—
Holy and just—the greatness of whose name
Fills and supports this universal frame,
Diffused throughout the infinitude of space,
Who art thyself thine own vast dwelling place;
Soul of our soul, whom yet no sense of ours
Discerns, eluding our most active powers;
Encircling shades attend thine awful throne,
That veil thy face, and keep thee still unknown;
Unknown, though dwelling in our inmost part,
Lord of the thoughts, and Sovereign of the heart!
Repeat the charming truth that never tires,
No God is like the God my soul desires;
He at whose voice heaven trembles, even He,
Great as he is, knows how to stoop to me—
Lo! there he lies—that smiling infant said,
"Heaven, earth, and sea, exist!"—and they obey'd.
E'en he, whose being swells beyond the skies,
Is born of woman, lives, and mourns, and dies;
Eternal and immortal, seems to cast
That glory from his brows, and breathes his last.
Trivial and vain the works that man has wrought,
How do they shrink and vanish at the thought!
Sweet solitude, and scene of my repose!
This rustic sight assuages all my woes—
That crib contains the Lord, whom I adore;
And earth's a shade that I pursue no more.
He is my firm support, my rock, my tower,
I dwell secure beneath his sheltering power,
And hold this mean retreat for ever dear,
For all I love, my soul's delight is here.
I see the Almighty swathed in infant bands,
Tied helpless down the thunder-bearer's hands!
And, in this shed, that mystery discern,
Which faith and love, and they alone, can learn.
Ye tempests, spare the slumbers of your Lord!
Ye zephyrs, all your whisper'd sweets afford!
Confess the God, that guides the rolling year;
Heaven, do him homage; and thou, earth, revere!
Ye shepherds, monarchs, sages, hither bring
Your hearts an offering, and adore your King!
Pure be those hearts, and rich in faith and love;
Join, in his praise, the harmonious world above;
To Bethlehem haste, rejoice in his repose,
And praise him there for all that he bestows!
Man, busy man, alas! can ill afford
To obey the summons, and attend the Lord;
Perverted reason revels and runs wild,
By glittering shows of pomp and wealth beguiled;
And, blind to genuine excellence and grace,
Finds not her author in so mean a place.
Ye unbelieving! learn a wiser part,
Distrust your erring sense, and search your heart;
There soon ye shall perceive a kindling flame
Glow for that infant God, from whom it came;
Resist not, quench not, that divine desire,
Melt all your adamant in heavenly fire!
Not so will I requite thee, gentle love!
Yielding and soft this heart shall ever prove;
And every heart beneath thy power should fall,
Glad to submit, could mine contain them all.
But I am poor, oblation I have none,
None for a Saviour, but himself alone:
Whate'er I render thee, from thee it came:
And, if I give my body to the flame,
My patience, love, and energy divine
Of heart, and soul, and spirit, all are thine.
Ah, vain attempt to expunge the mighty score!
The more I pay, I owe thee still the more.
Upon my meanness, poverty, and guilt,
The trophy of thy glory shall be built;
My self-disdain shall be the unshaken base,
And my deformity its fairest grace;
For destitute of good, and rich in ill,
Must be my state and my description still.
And do I grieve at such an humbling lot?
Nay, but I cherish and enjoy the thought—
Vain pageantry and pomp of earth, adieu!
I have no wish, no memory for you;
The more I feel my misery, I adore
The sacred inmate of my soul the more;
Rich in his love, I feel my noblest pride
Spring from the sense of having nought beside.
In Thee I find wealth, comfort, virtue, might;
My wanderings prove thy wisdom infinite;
All that I have I give thee; and then see
All contrarieties unite in thee;
For thou hast join'd them, taking up our woe,
And pouring out thy bliss on worms below,
By filling with thy grace and love divine
A gulf of evil in this heart of mine.
This is, indeed, to bid the valleys rise,
And the hills sink—'tis matching earth and skies;
I feel my weakness, thank thee, and deplore
An aching heart, that throbs to thank thee more;
The more I love thee, I the more reprove
A soul so lifeless, and so slow to love;
Till, on a deluge of thy mercy toss'd,
I plunge into that sea, and there am lost.