Chapter 2

CHAPTER L

✦

As you thought there were omissions of importance
in the former narration of my life, I willingly comply
with your desire, in giving you a more circumstantial
relation; though the labor seems rather painful, as I
cannot use much study or reflection. My earnest wish
is to paint in true colors to your view, the goodness of
God to me, and the depth of my own ingratitude — but
it is impossible, as numberless little circumstances have
escaped my memory, and you are also unwilling I
should give you a minute account of my sins. I shall,
however, try to leave out as few faults as possible, and
I depend on you to destroy it, when your soul hath
drawn those spiritual advantages therefrom, which God
intended, and for which purpose I am willing to sacri¬
fice all things, being fully persuaded of his designs
toward you, as well for the sanctification of others, as
for your own sanctification.

But let me assure you, this is not attained, save
through pain, weariness and labor; and it will be
reached by a path that will wonderfully disappoint your
expectations. Nevertheless, if you are fully convinced
that it is on the nothing in man that God establishes

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his greatest works, — you will be in part guarded against
disappointment or surprise. He destroys that he might
build; for when he is about to rear his sacred temple
in us, he first totally razes that vain and pompous edi¬
fice, which human art and power had erected, and from
its horrible ruins a new structure is formed, by his
power only.

Oh, that you could comprehend the depth of this
mystery, and learn the secrets of the conduct of God,
revealed to babes, but hid from the wise and great of
this world, who think themselves the Lord’s coun¬
sellor’s, and capable of investigating his procedures,
and suppose they have attained that divine wisdom
hidden from the eyes of all who live in self, and are
enveloped in their own works, and who by a lively
genius and elevated faculties mount up to heaven,
and think to comprehend the height and depth and
length and breadth of God.

This divine wisdom is unknown, even to those who
pass in the world for persons of extraordinary illumin¬
ation and knowledge. To whom then is she known,
and who can tell us any tidings concerning her? De¬
struction and death assure us, that they have heard
with their ears of her fame and renown. It is, then, in
dying to all things, and in being truly lost to them,
passing forward into God, and existing only in him, that
we attain to some knowledge of the true wisdom. Oh,
how little are her ways known, and her dealings with
her most chosen servants ! Scarce do we discover any¬
thing thereof, but surprised at the dissimilitude betwixt
the truth we thus discover and our former ideas of it,
we cry out with St. Paul, “Oh, the depth of the knowl¬
edge and wisdom of God ! how unsearchable are his

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judgments, and his ways past finding out.” The Lord
judgeth not of things as men do, who call good evil and
evil good, and account that as righteousness which is
abominable in his sight, and which according to the
prophet, he regards as filthy rags. He will enter into
strict judgment with these self-righteous, and they
shall, like the Pharisees, be rather subjects ot Jus
wrath, than objects ot his love, or inheritors of his
rewards. Doth not Christ himself assure us, that “ ex¬
cept our righteousness exceed that of the Scribes and
Pharisees we shall in no case enter into the kingdom of
heaven.” And which of us even approaches them in
righteousness; or, if we five in the practice of virtues,
though much inferior to theirs, are we not ten-fold
more ostentatious? Who is not pleased to behold him¬
self righteous in his own eyes, and in the eyes of
others? or, who is it doubts that such righteousness is
sufficient to please God? Yet, we see the indignation
of our Lord manifested against such. He who was the
perfect pattern of tenderness and meekness, such as
flowed from the depth of the heart, and not that
affected meekness, which under the form of a dove,
hides the hawk’s heart. He appears severe only to
these self-righteous people, and he publicly dishonored
them. In what strange colors does he represent them,
while he beholds the poor sinner with mercy, compas¬
sion and love, and declares that for them only he was
come, that it was the sick who needed the physician;
and that he came only to save the lost sheep of the
house of Israel.

O thou Source of Love! thou dost indeed seem
so jealous of the salvation thou hast purchased, that
thou dost prefer the sinner to the righteous! The poor

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sinner beholds himself vile and wretched, is in a man¬
ner constrained to detest himself; and finding his state
so horrible, casts himself in his desperation into the
arms of his Savior, and plunges into the healing foun¬
tain, and comes forth “white as wool.” Then con¬
founded at the review of his disordered state, and
overflowing with love for him, who having alone the
power, had also the compassion to save him — the excess
of his love is proportioned to the enormity of his crimes,
and the fullness of his gratitude, to the extent of the
debt remitted. "Whilst the self-righteous, relying on
the many good works he imagines he has performed,
seems to hold salvation in his own hand, and considers
heaven as a just reward of his merits. In the bitterness
of his zeal he exclaims against all sinners, and repre¬
sents the gates of mercy as barred against them, and
heaven as a place to which they have no claim. "What
need have such self-righteous persons of a Savior? they
are already burdened with the load of their own merits.
Oh, how long they bear the flattering load, whilst sin¬
ners divested of everything, fly rapidly on the wings of
faith and love into their Savior’s arms, who freely
bestows on them that which he has so freely promised.

How full of self-love are the self-righteous, and how
void of the love of God? They esteem and admire
themselves in their works of righteousness, which they
suppose to be a fountain of happiness. These works
are no sooner exposed to the Sun of Righteousness,
than they discover all to be so full of impurity and
baseness, that it frets them to the heart; meanwhile the
poor sinner, Magdalene, is pardoned, because she loves
much, and her faith and love are accepted as righteous¬
ness. The inspired Paul, who so well understood these

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great truths, and so fully investigated them, asssures us
that “the faith of Abraham was imputed to him for
righteousness.” This is truly beautiful, for it is certain
that all of that holy patriarch’s actions were strictly
righteous; yet, not seeing them as such, and being
devoid of the love of them, and divested of selfishness,
his faith was founded on the coming Christ. He hoped
in him even against hope itself, and this was imputed
to him for righteousness, (Rom. iv. 18 and 22,) a pure,
simple and genuine righteousness, wrought by Christ,
and not a righteousness wrought by himself, and
regarded as of himself.

You may imagine this a digression wide of the
subject I at first proposed; but it leads insensibly to it,
and shows that God accomplishes his work either in
converted sinners, whose past iniquities serve as a
counterpoise to their elevation; or in persons whose self-
righteousness he destroys, by totally overthrowing the
proud building they had reared on a sandy foundation,
instead of the Rock — Christ.

The establishment of all these ends, which he pro¬
posed in coming into the world, is effected by the
apparent overthrow of that very structure which in
reality he would erect; for, by means which seem
to destroy his Church, he establishes it. How
strangely does he found the new dispensation and give
it his sanction! The very legislator himself is con¬
demned by the learned and great, as a malefactor, and
dies an ignominious death. Oh, that we fully under¬
stood how very opposite our self-righteousness is to
the designs of God— it would be a subject for endless
humiliation, and we should have an utter distrust in

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that which at present constitutes the whole of our
dependence.

This being premised, it will be less difficult for you
to conceive the designs of God, in the favors he has
conferred on one of the most insignificant of his crea¬
tures. From a just love of his supreme power, and a
righteous jealousy of mankind, who attribute to each
other the gifts he himself bestows upon them, it pleased
him to take one of the most unworthy of the creation,
to make known the fact that his graces are the effects
of his will, not the fruits of our merits; that it is the
property of his wisdom, to destroy what is proudly
built, and to build what is destroyed; to make use of
weak things to confound the mighty, and to employ
in his service such as appear vile and contemptible.

This he does in a manner so astonishing, as to ren¬
der them the objects of the scorn and contempt of the
world. It is not to draw the public approbation upon
them, that he makes them instrumental in the salvation
of others; but to render them the objects of their dis¬
like and the subjects of their insults; as you will see in
the narrative of the life you have enjoined upon me to
write.

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CHAPTER H

I was bom on the 18th of April, 1648. My parents,
particularly my father, was extremely pious; but to
him it was in a manner hereditary, as many of his
forefathers were saints.

My mother, in the eighth month, was accidentally
frightened, which caused an abortion; and it is gener¬
ally imagined that a child bom in that month cannot
survive; indeed, I was so excessively ill, immediately
after my birth, that all about me despaired of my life,
and were apprehensive I should die without baptism;
but perceiving some signs of vitality, they ran to
acquaint my father, who immediately brought a priest;
but, on entering the chamber they were told, those
symptoms which had raised their hopes were only
expiring straggles, and that all was now over.

I had no sooner shown signs of life again, than I
again relapsed, and remained so long in an uncertain
state, that it was some time before they could find a
proper opportunity to baptize me, and I continued
very unhealthy until I was two and a half years old,
when they sent me to the convent of the Ursulines,
where I remained a few months.

On my return, my mother neglected to pay due
attention to my education. She was not fond of
daughters, and therefore abandoned me wholly to the
care of servants; and indeed I should have suffered
severely from their inattention to me, had not an all-

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watchful Providence been my protector: for through
the hveliness of my disposition, I met with various
accidents. I frequently fell into a deep vault that held
our fire-wood; however, I always escaped unhurt.

The Dutchess of Montbason came to the convent of
the Benedictines, when I was about four years old.
She had a great friendship for my father, and obtained
his permission that I should go tq the same convent;
for she took peculiar delight in my infant sportiveness,
and a certain sweetness in my external deportment,
with which God had endowed me. I accordingly
became her constant companion.

I was guilty of frequent and dangerous irregular¬
ities in this house, and remember to have committed
serious faults. Yet I had good examples before me, and
being naturally well inclined, I quickly followed them,
when there were none to turn me aside. I loved to
hear God spoken of, to be at Church, and to be dressed
in a religious habit. One day I was told of the terrors
of hell, which I imagined was intended to intimidate
me, as I was exceedingly lively, and full of a little
petulant vivacity, which they called wit. The succeed¬
ing night I dreamt of hell, and though I was so young,
yet time has never since been able to efface the fright¬
ful ideas which were then impressed upon my imagin¬
ation. All appeared horrible darkness, where souls
were punished, and my place amongst them was
pointed out. At this I wept bitterly, and cried, “ Oh,
my God, if thou wilt have mercy upon me, and spare
me yet a little longer, I will never more offend thee.”
And thou didst, O Lord, in mercy hearken unto my
cry, and pour upon me strength and courage to serve
thee, in an uncommon manner for one of my age. I

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wanted to go privately to confession, but being so
little, tbe mistress of the boarders carried me to the
priest, and staid with me while I was heard singly; but
she was much astonished when I came to mention that
I had suggestions against the faith, and the confessor
began to laugh, and enquire what they were. I told
him that till then I had doubted there was such a
place as hell, and supposed my mistress had spoken of
it merely to make me good, but that now my doubts
were all removed. After confession my heart glowed
with a kind of fervor, and at one time I felt a desire to
suffer martyrdom. The good girls of the house, to
amuse themselves, and to see how far this growing
fervor would carry me, desired me to prepare for mar¬
tyrdom. I found great fervency and delight in prayer
on this occasion, and was persuaded that this ardor,
which was as new as it was pleasing, was a proof o i
God’s love; and this inspired me with such courage
and resolution, that I earnestly besought them to pro¬
ceed, that I might thereby enter into his sacred pres¬
ence. But was there not latent hypocrisy here ? Did
I not imagine that it was possible they would not kill
me, and that I should have the merit of martyrdom
without suffering it? Indeed, it appeared there was
something of this nature in it; for being placed kneel¬
ing on a cloth spread for the purpose, and seeing
behind me a large sword lifted up, which they had
prepared to try how far my ardor would carry me, I
cried, “Hold! it is not right I should die without first
obtaining my father’s permission.” I was quickly
upbraided with having said this that I might escape,
and that I was no longer a martyr. I continued long
disconsolate, and would receive no comfort; something

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inwardly reproved me, for not having embraced that
opportunity of going to heaven, when it rested alto¬
gether on my own choice.

At my solicitation, and on account of my falling so
frequently sicli, I was at length taken home; but not
without having met a variety of little crosses, propor¬
tioned to my age. On my return, my mother having a
maid in whom she placed confidence, left me again to
the care of servants. I must here mention it as a great
fault, of which mothers are guilty, when under pretext
of external devotions, or other engagements, they suffer
their daughters to be absent from them; nor can I for¬
bear condemning that unjust partiality with which
parents treat some of their children. It is frequently
productive of divisions in families, and even the ruin of
some; whereas impartiality, by uniting children’s
hearts together, lays the foundation of lasting har¬
mony and unanimity.

I would I were able to convince parents, and all
who have the care of youth, of the great attention they
require, and how dangerous it is to let them be for any
length of time from under their own eye, or to suffer
them to be without some kind of employment. This
negligence is the ruin of multitudes of females. How
many little angels would we see, did not idleness and
want of due restraint destroy every seed of virtue ?

How greatly it is to be lamented, that mothers who
are inclined to piety, should pervert even the means of
salvation to their destruction, and commit the greatest
irregularities while apparently pursuing that which
should produce the most regular and circumspect
conduct.

Thus, because they experience certain sweetnesses

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in prayer, they would be all day long at Church;
meanwhile their children are running to destruction at
home. We glorify God most when we prevent what
may offend him. What must be the nature of that
sacrifice which is the occasion of sin. God should be
served in his own way, not in ours. Let the devotion
of mothers be so regulated as to prevent their daugh¬
ters from straying. They should treat them as sisters,
not as slaves; and appear pleased with their little
amusements. Thus the children will delight in the
presence of their mothers, instead of avoiding it; for if
they find so much happiness with them, they will not
dream of seeking it elsewhere. But mothers frequently
deny their children any liberties; therefore, like birds
constantly confined to a cage, they no sooner find
means of escape than off they go, and never more
return; whereas, in order to render them tame and
docile when young, they should be permitted some¬
times to take wing; but as their flight is weak, and
closely watched, it is easy to retake them when they
escape; and this little flight gives them the habit of
naturally returning to their cage, which becomes an
agreeable confinement. I believe young girls should
be treated in a manner something similar to this;
mothers should indulge them in an innocent liberty,
but should never lose sight of them.

To guard the tender minds of children from what
is wrong, much care should be taken to employ them
in agreeable and useful matters. They should not be
loaded with food they cannot relish; milk suited to
babes should be administered to them, and not strong
meat, which may so disgust them, that when they
arrive at an age wherein it would be proper nourish-

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ment, they will not so much as taste it. Every day
they should be obliged to read a little in some good
book, and spend some time in prayer, which must be
suited rather to stir the affections, than for meditation.
Oh, were this method of education pursued, how
speedily would many irregularities cease 1 These
daughters becoming mothers, would educate their
children as they themselves had been educated.

Parents should also avoid showing the smallest
partiality in the treatment of their children; it begets a
secret jealousy and hatred amongst them, which fre¬
quently augments with time, and even continues until
death. How often do we see some children the idols
of the house, behaving like absolute tyrants, and treat¬
ing their brothers and sisters as so many slaves accord¬
ing to the example of father and mother. And it
happens many times, that the favorite proves a scourge
to the parents, while the poor despised and hated one
becomes at length their whole consolation and support.

My mother was very defective in the education of
her children. She suffered me whole days from her
presence, in company with the servants, whose conver¬
sation and example were particularly hurtful to one of
my disposition. My mother’s heart seemed wholly
centered in my brother; so that I was scarcely ever
favored with the smallest instance of her tenderness or
affection. I therefore voluntarily absented myself from
her. It is true, my brother was more amiable than I,
but the excess of her fondness for him, made her blind
even to my outward good qualities, and served only to
discover my faults, which would have been but trifling
had proper care been taken of me.

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