{
  "meta": {
    "schema_version": "1.1",
    "endpoint": "/api/sources/rhineland-mystics/suso/vol-1-00-the-life-of-blessed-henry-suso.json"
  },
  "work": {
    "slug": "suso",
    "name": "Heinrich Suso"
  },
  "parents": [
    {
      "slug": "rhineland-mystics",
      "name": "Rhineland Mystics",
      "url": "/sources/rhineland-mystics/"
    }
  ],
  "chapter": {
    "num": 1,
    "slug": "vol-1-00-the-life-of-blessed-henry-suso",
    "title": "00-the-life-of-blessed-henry-suso",
    "of": 3,
    "words": 74696,
    "text": "# The Life of Blessed Henry Suso\n\n\n*by Heinrich Suso (c. 1295-1366), dictated to Elsbeth Stagel; translated by Thomas Francis Knox (London: Burns, Lambert, and Oates, 1865) from the Latin of Surius (1555).*\n\n\nTHE   LIFE \n\n\nUf \n\n\nOF \n\n\nBLESSED  HENRY  SUSO \n\nfttmshtzb \n\n\nTHOMAS \n\nPRIEST  OF \n\n\nLONDON : \n\nBURNS,   LAMBERT,   AND   OATES, \n\n17  Portman  Street  and  63  Paternoster  Row. \n1865. \n\n\nLONDON : \n\nROBSON  AND  SON,  GREAT  NORTHERN  PRINTING  WORKS, \nTANCRAS  ROAD,  N.W. \n\n\n^MAE? \n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. \n\n\nThe  Blessed  Henry  Suso  was  born  at  Ueberlingen, \nnear  Constance,  on  St.  Benedict's  -  day,  a.d.  1300. \nHe  was  of  ancient  and  noble  descent  both  on  his \nfather's  and  mother's  side.  Out  of  devotion  to  his \nmother,  who  was  a  person  of -eminent  holiness,  he \ncalled  himself  by  her  maiden  name  of  Seuss,  Latin- \nised into  Suso,  instead  of  taking  his  father's  sur- \nname, Von  Berg.  His  baptismal  name  was  Henry ; \nbut  many  years  later,  when  he  had  attained  to  great \nholiness,  God  changed  his  name  into  Amandus,  or \nBeloved.  The  Blessed  Henry  did  not  make  this \nknown  to  any  one  so  long  as  he  lived,  but  a  record \nof  it  was  discovered  among  his  papers  after  his  death. \nAt  the  age  of  thirteen  he  entered  the  novitiate  of  the \nDominican  Convent  at  Constance,  where  he  was  ad- \nmitted to  the  vows  of  religion,  and  after  some  years \nwas  sent  to  the  convent  of  his  Order  at  Cologne,  to \npursue  his  studies  at  that  University.  While  there \nhe  made  such  great  progress  in  learning  that  he  was \nabout  to  be  promoted  to  the  degree  of  doctor  in  theo- \nlogy. But  he  was  forbidden  to  accept  this  honour  by \na  voice  from  God  within  him  saying  : — Thou  know- \n\n\nIV  PREFACE. \n\nest  well  enough  already  how  to  give  thyself  to  God \nand  to  draw  other  men  to  Him  by  thy  preaching. \nFrom  that  time  forth  he  began  to  preach  with  great \nzeal  and  fervour,  and  to  devote  himself  to  the  con- \nversion of  sinners  and  the  guidance  of  souls  along \nthe  highest  paths  of  mystical  perfection.  At  length, \nafter  many  years  of  unceasing  labours  and  sufferings, \nhe  died  at  Ulm,  on  the  feast  of  the  Conversion  of  St. \nPaul,  a.d.  1365,  and  was  buried  in  the  cloister  of  the \nDominican  Convent  in  that  city.  Two  hundred  and \nforty-eight  years  after  tins,  when  Ulm  had  become \nProtestant,  the  B.  Henry's  body  was  accidentally \ndiscovered,  a.d.  1613,  by  some  workmen  who  were \ndigging  the  foundations  for^a  new. building.  It  was \nquite  incorrupt,  and  lay. there  closed  in  the  \"habit  of \nthe  Order,  and  emitted  &  fragrant. odour.  -The  work- \nmen went  in  alarm  ;t<f  inform  |Ee  burgomaster,  who \nbade  them  fill  up  th<r  grave  arid  say  nothing  about \nit;  adding,  that  he  had  always  heard  that  the  dead \nshould  be  allowed  to  rest'  in  peace.  Meanwhile, \nduring  the  absence  of ( the.  workmen,  a  devout  person \nwent  down  into  the  grave:  and  cut  off  part  of  the \nblack  mantle  and  white  scapular— portions  of  which \nwere  afterwards  distributed  rfs' relics  among  different \nCatholics.  One  of  these  relics  came  into  the  posses- \nsion of  Henry  Murer,  who  has  given  an  account  of \nthe  discovery  of  the  body  in  his  Helvetia  Sancta, \npublished  at  Luzern  a.d.  1648.  At  a  later  period, \nwhen  Ulm  was  occupied  by  the  French  during  one  of \n\n\nPREFACE.  V \n\ntheir  campaigns,  they  caused  excavations  to  be  made \nin  the  hope  of  discovering  the  sacred  remains,  but \nwithout  success.  The  Blessed  Henry  has  never  been \nformally  beatified,  but  his  feast  is  kept  by  the  Domi- \nnican Order  on  March  2d,  with  the  approbation  of \nGregory  XVI.,  granted  April  16,  1831. \n\nSuch  are  the  main  outlines  of  B.  Henry's  external \nlife  and  history.  The  details  of  the  picture  must  be \nsought  for  in  the  brief  record  which  he  has  himself  left \nus  of  his  experiences  in  the  ways  of  God. \n\nThe  following  translation  has  been  made  from \nthe  editionj&^ms^^Henry  Suso's  Life  and  Works, \nedited  top  Caramal  J^pftobrock,  Prince  Bishop  of \nBresla^Bln  182^gThe^fl^f  the  Life  is  based  upon \na  maifiscript^of^e  encTJQ\\Uie  fourteenth  century \nfrom  itSloyajr.  Li^ry^t  $fkftch,  which  the  editor \ncarefulv  collate\"^ w^^th&eaBSelfc  printed  copies  pub- \nlished ft  Augsbu)g^£.  T48f\"all  a.d.  1512. \n\nSurMs,Vthe  Oar$jS|ian,  trarllated  the  Life  and \nWorks  ftan\\  the^e^nian  ©4  Latin.  The  first \nedition,  defeated  $3  SfeVeribifeble  Abbot  Blosius, \nappeared  a^Gologne  At^l5«D.  The  rendering  is \nsingularly  grace^^andaccj«Ke,  so  far  as  the  differ- \nent genius  of  the  twoTSnguages  and  the  occasional \nimperfections  of  the  German  text  used  by  Burins, \nprincipally  in  the  last  nine  chapters,  would  permit. \n\nA  French  translation  by  the  Carthusian  Le  Cerf \nwas  published  at  Paris  in  1586,  and  an  Italian  one \nby  the  Dominican  Del  Nente  at  Rome  in  1651.     The \na2 \n\n\nVI  PREFACE. \n\nlatter  has  been  frequently  reprinted,  but  it  does  not \nin  any  sense  merit  the  name  of  a  translation,  as  it \nis  nothing  more  than  a  mere  epitome  or  condensed \nabridgment  of  the  original.  Cartier  has  recently \ntranslated  Del  Nente's  work  into  French,  under  the \ntitle  of  GEuvres  du  B.  Henri  Suso.  The  second  edition \nappeared  in  1856. \n\nAs  the  chief  object  of  the  present  translator  has \nbeen  to  provide  a  book  of  spiritual  reading  for  the \ndevout,  he  hesitated  for  some  time  whether  or  not  to \nomit  the  last  nine  chapters,  which  treat  for  the  most \npart  of  deep  points  of  mystical  theology  in  language \nwhich,  from  its  antiquated  character  and  excessive \nconciseness,  is  sometimes  obscure,  and  is  always  difficult \nto  translate  into  intelligible  English  without  indulging \nin  paraphrase.  Surius  has  relegated  these  chapters \nto  another  part  of  the  volume,  under  the  title  of \n\"  Appendix  of  certain  sublime  questions.\"  Still,  as \nCardinal  Diepenbrock  observes,  they  really  belong  to \nthe  Life,  and  form  part  of  it  in  the  earliest  manu- \nscript and  printed  editions.  On  the  whole,  it  seemed \nbetter  to  include  these  chapters  in  the  present  trans- \nlation. They  contain  several  passages  of  wonderful \nbeauty,  which  every  one  will  read  with  pleasure.  They \nare,  moreover,  a  protest  against  the  errors  of  panthe- \nism and  quietism,  to  which  a  spirit  of  false  mysti- \ncism naturally  tends,  and  against  which  the  B.  Henry \noften  raised  his  voice  in  warning.  Lastly,  their  ab- \nsence would  leave  one  side  of  the  B.  Henry's  life \n\n\nPREFACE.  Vll \n\nwholly  unrepresented.  For  they  serve  to  remind  us \nthat  if  his  personal  and  experimental  acquaintance \nwith  mystical  theology  was  great,  he  was  no  less \nconversant  with  it  as  a  science,  and  could  treat  with \nlearning  and  accuracy  the  many  deep  and  subtle \nquestions  which  it  suggests. \n\n\nThe  Oratory,  London, \n\nFeast  of  St.  Richard,  1865. \n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\nPAGE \n\nTranslator's  Preface iii \n\nPrologue .1 \n\nCHAP. \n\nI.  Introductory 5 \n\nII.  Of  the  preliminary  combats  of  a  beginner       .  7 \n\nIII.  Of  a  supernatural  rapture  which  befell  him     .  11 \n\nIV.  How  he  spiritually  espoused  the  Eternal  Wis- \n\ndom      13 \n\nV.  How  he  inscribed  upon  his  heart  the  gracious \n\nName  of  Jesus 20 \n\nVI.  Of  the  foretaste  of  divine  consolations,  with \n\nwhich  God  sometimes  allures  beginners     .     23 \nVII.  How  one,  who  had  begun  well,  was  drawn  on- \nwards in  his  search  after  divine  consolation    27 \n\nVIII.  Of  certain  visions 30 \n\nIX.  Of  the  way  in  which  he  went  to  table      .         .    33 \n\nX.  How  he  began  the  New  Year   .         .        .         .36 \n\nXI.  Of  the  words  Sursum  corda      .         .         .        .38 \n\nXII.  How  he  kept  the  feast  of  Candlemas        .        .    41 \n\nXIII.  How  he  spent  the  Carnival  time      .        .         .44 \n\nXIV.  How  he  began  the  month  of  May     .        .        .48 \nXV.  Of  the  sorrowful  way  of  the  Cross,  which  he \n\nmade  with  Christ  when  He  was  being  led \n\nforth  to  death 50 \n\nXVI.  Of  the  useful  virtue  called  silence  .  .  .  5G \nXVII.  Of  the  chastisement  of  his  body  .  .  .57 \nXVIII.  Of  the  sharp  cross  which  he  bore  upon  his  back    Gl \n\n\nX  CONTENTS. \n\nCHAP.  *  PAGR \n\nXIX.  Of  his  bed 68 \n\nXX.  How  he  broke  himself  from  drink      .        .71 \nXXI.  How  he  was  directed  to  the  rational  school, \nin  which  the  art  of  true  detachment  is \n\ntaught .81 \n\nXXII.  How  painful  it  is  to  die  interiorly      .         .     84 \n\nXXIII.  Of  interior  sufferings  .        .        .        .97 \n\nXXIV.  How  he  went  forth  to  succour  and  to  save \n\nhis  neighbour 10O \n\nXXV.  Concerning  manifold  sufferings  .        .  103 \n\nXXVI.  Of  the  great  suffering  which  befell  him \n\nthrough  his  sister Ill \n\nXXVII.  Of  a  grievous  suffering  which  befell  him \n\nthrough  a  companion     .         .         .         .118 \nXXVIII.  Of  a  murderer     .        .        .        .        .'        .125 \n\nXXIX.  Of  perils  by  water 130 \n\nXXX.  Of  a  short  interval  of  rest  which  God  once \n\ngranted  him 133 \n\nXXXI.  How  he  once  entered  into  a  loving  account \n\nwith  God 135 \n\nXXXII.  How  his  sufferings  once  brought  him  nigh \n\nto  death 141 \n\nXXXIII.  How  a  man  should  offer  up  his  sufferings \n\nto  the  praise  and  glory  of  God       .         .  14(5 \n\nXXXIV.  Of  the  joys  with  which  God  recompenses \n\nin  this  present  life  those  who  suffer  for \n\nHim 151 \n\nXXXV.  Of  the  Servitor's  spiritual  daughter   .        .  157 \nXXXVI.  Of  the  first  beginnings  of  a  beginner          .  162 \nXXXVII.  Of  the  first  lessons  and  examples  which \nare  suitable  for  a  beginner,  and  how  he \nshould  regulate  his  exercises  with  dis- \ncretion     168 \n\n\nCONTENTS.  XI \n\nCHAP.  PAGE \n\nXXXVIII.  Of  certain  devout  practices  of  a  young  be- \nginner in  his  early  years        .        .         .178 \nXXXIX.  How  he  drew  light-minded  persons  to  God, \nand  comforted  those  who  were  in  suf- \nfering      185 \n\nXL.  Of  a  grievous  suffering  which  befell  him \n\nwhile  thus  occupied       .        .        .        .191 \nXLI.  Of  interior  sufferings  „  214 \n\nXLII.  What  sufferings  are  the  most  useful  to  men, \n\nand  bring  most  glory  to  God?        .         .  217 \nXLIII.  How  he  drew  certain  hearts  from  earthly \n\nlove  to  the  love  of  God  .        .        .  222 \n\nXLIV.  How  God  multiplied  drink  for  His  friends    233 \nXLV.  Of  certain  sufferers,  who  were  attached  to \nthe  Servitor  by  special  ties  of  friend- \nship and  affection  ....  234 \nXL VI.  How  Christ  appeared  to  him  under  the \nform  of  a  Seraph,  and  taught  him  how \n\nto  suffer 239 \n\nXLVII.  How  steadfastly  he  must  fight  who  would \n\nwin  the  spiritual  prize  ....  245 \nXLVIII.  How  the  Servitor's  face  was  once  seen  to \nshine  with  light  while  he  was  preach- \ning          249 \n\nXLIX.  Of  the  lovely  Name  of  Jesus      .        .        .  249 \nL.  A  good  distinction  between  a  true   and \nfalse  use  of  reason  noticeable  in  certain \n\npersons 252 \n\nLI.  How  to  distinguish  between  a  well-ordered \nreason  and  one  which  is  all  flowers  and \n\nglitter 257 \n\nLII.  A  good  distinction  between  true  and  false \n\ndetachment 260 \n\n\nXll  CONTENTS. \n\nCHAP.  PAGE \n\nLIII.  Maxims,  conformable  to  right  reason,  for  the \nguidance  of  an  exterior  man  into  his  in- \nterior      266 \n\nLIV.  Of  the  high  questions  which  the  well-exercised \n\ndaughter  put  to  her  spiritual  father  .  .  280 \nLV.  An  explanation  where  and  how  God  is  .  -  .  288 \nLVI.  Of  the  very  highest  flight  of  a  soul  experienced \n\nin  the  ways  of  God 301 \n\nLVII.  The  conclusion  of  the  contents  of  this  book  in \n\na  few  simple  words 312 \n\n\nPROLOGUE.* \n\n\nThe  following  book  speaks  throughout  in  an \ninstructive  manner  of  the  life  of  a  beginner, \nand  contains,  for  those  who  look  beneath  the \nsurface,  information  respecting  the  proper  way \nin  which  a  beginner  should  order  his  outer  and \ninner  man  so  as  to  be  in  harmony  with  God's \nall-lovely  will.  And  since  good  works  are  un- \ndoubtedly a  better  guide,  and  sometimes  shed \na  brighter  light  into  a  man's  heart  than  mere \nwords,  therefore  the  book  recounts,  as  examples, \nmany  different  holy  actions,  which  really  and \ntruly  took  place  just  as  they  are  related.  The \nbook  also  tells  of  a  man's  progress  in  holiness ; \nthat  is,  how,  by  avoiding  things,  by  sufferings, \nand  by  exercises,  he  may  break  through  his  un- \nmortified  animal  nature,  and  arrive  at  great  and \nexalted  dignity.    Moreover,  since  there  are  some \n\n*  The  following  passages  are  taken  from  the  Prologue \nprefixed  by  the  B.  Henry  Suso  to  a  manuscript  copy  of  his \nLife  and  Writings.  They  contain  all  in  it  that  relates  to  the \nLife.  The  Prologue  is  to  be  found  in  the  ancient  printed \ncopies,  and  is  quoted  by  Diepenbrock  in  his  preface. \nB \n\n\n2  PROLOGUE. \n\nmen  who,  with  courageous  hearts,  strive  to  grasp \nat  what  is  highest  and  best,  and  yet,  from  want \nof  the  necessary  knowledge  to  discriminate,  go \nastray  and  miss  the  road,  therefore  this  book \ngives  instruction  how  to  distinguish  rightly  be- \ntween a  true  and  false  use  of  reason  in  spiritual \nthings;  and  it  teaches  the  orderly  and  proper \ncourse  by  which  a  man  may  attain  to  the  un- \nalloyed truth  of  a  blessed  and  perfect  life. \n\nIt  should  be  also  mentioned,  that  the  pages \nof  this  book  lay  for  many  years  locked  up  in \nsecret,  awaiting  the  Servitor's  death ;  for  he \nwas  in  very  truth  reluctant  to  disclose  himself \nto  any  one  by  means  of  them,  so  long  as  he \nlived.  At  length,  however,  his  reason  told  him \nthat,  in  these  days  of  the  decline  of  the  human \nrace,  it  would  be  better  and  safer  that  the  book, \nby  God's  permission,  should  be  submitted  to \nhis  superiors  while  he  was  still  living,  and  could \nanswer  for  its  truth  in  all  points,  than  after  his \ndeath.  And  this,  moreover,  even  though  it \nshould  fall  out  that  certain  ignorant  men,  whose \nwords  are  in  no  way  worthy  of  account,  should \npass  false  and  perverted  judgments  upon  it, \neither  because  they  would  not  regard  the  Ser- \nvitor's good  intention  in  the  matter,  or  because \nthey   were    unable,    from    want    of    spiritual \n\n\nPROLOGUE.  3 \n\nrefinement,  to  comprehend  any  thing  higher \nthan  what  they  had  experienced  in  themselves. \nBesides  it  was  quite  possible  that  the  book \nmight,  after  his  death,  come  into  the  possession \nof  lukewarm  and  un spiritual  men,  who  would \nnot  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  communicate \nit  for  God's  glory  to  those  who  would  receive  it \neagerly ;  and  in  this  way  the  book  might  perish \nwithout  fruit.  Or  again,  it  might  chance  to \nfall  into  the  hands  of  men  intellectually  blind \nor  morally  bad,  who  from  their  sinful  dislike \nof  it  might  suppress  it,  as  has  often  happened \nin  other  cases.  Therefore,  with  the  divine  as- \nsistance, he  took  courage,  and  extracted  from \nthis  book  the  sublimest  thoughts  and  the  most \nelevated  teaching  which  it  contains,  and  himself \ngave  these  extracts  to  a  learned  doctor,  named \nMaster  Bartholomew,  to  read;  a  man  richly \nendowed  by  God  with  virtues  and  graces,  and \nof  approved  experience  in  spiritual  science,  and \nfurthermore  a  Prelate  with  supreme  jurisdiction \nover  the  order  of  Friars  Preachers  throughout \nGermany.  The  Servitor  humbly  gave  him  up \nthe  book,  and  he  read  it  through  with  great  satis- \nfaction of  heart,  and  pronounced  that  it  was,  all \nof  it,  as  it  were,  a  kernel  of  hidden  truth  drawn \nfrom  Holy  Writ  for  all  clear-sighted  men. \n\n\n4  PROLOGUE. \n\nAfterwards,  when  the  ordinary  teaching  had \nbeen  added  to  it,  in  order  that  every  man  might \nfind  there  what  would  suit  him,  and  the  Ser- \nvitor was  about  to  lay  this  part  also  before  the \nPrelate,  the  good  God  withdrew  from  hence \nthis  noble  Master.  The  Servitor,  on  hearing \nof  his  death,  was  exceedingly  afflicted,  for  he \nknew  not  what  to  do.  He  therefore  betook \nhimself  with  great  earnestness  to  the  Eternal \nWisdom,  and  prayed  that  it  might  be  shown \nhim  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do  in  this  affair. \nAfter  a  time  his  prayer  was  heard,  and  the \naforenamed  Master  appeared  to  him  in  a  bright \nvision,  and  told  him  that  it  was  God's  good  will \nthat  the  book  should  be  henceforth  communi- \ncated to  all  good-hearted  men,  who  with  a  right \nintention  and  an  eager  longing  might  desire  to \nhave  it. \n\nHe  then  who  wishes  earnestly  to  become  a \ngood  and  blessed  man,  and  who  longs  after \nspecial  intimacy  with  God,  or  who  has  received \na  token  of  God's  love  in  heavy  sufferings,  as \nGod's  way  is  with  His  peculiar  friends, — such  a \nman  will  find  this  book  a  help  and  comfort. \nIt  will  also  serve  as  a  guide  for  good-hearted \nmen  to  divine  truth,  as  well  as  teach  men  of \nreason  the  right  road  to  supreme  bliss. \n\n\nTHE \n\n\nLIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  L \n\nIntroductory. \nThere  was  a  Friar  Preacher  in  Germany,  by \nbirth  a  Swabian, — may  his  name  be  written  in \nthe  Book  of  the  Living ! — whose  desire  was  to \nbecome  and  to  be  called  a  Servitor  of  the  Eter- \nnal Wisdom.  Now  it  happened  that  he  became \nacquainted  with  a  holy  and  illuminated  person, \nwho  was  in  poverty  and  suffering  as  regards \nthis  world.  This  poor  sufferer  was  a  woman ; \nand  she  used  to  beseech  the  Servitor  to  tell  her \nsomething  about  suffering  from  his  own  expe- \nrience, that  her  suffering  heart  might  gather \nstrength  from  it.  And  she  acted  thus  towards \nhim  for  a  long  time.  When  he  came  to  see \nher,  she  drew  from  him  by  confidential  ques- \ntionings the  manner  of  his  beginning  and  pro- \n\n\n6  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ngress  in  the  interior  life,  as  well  as  certain  ex- \nercises and  sufferings  which  he  had  passed \nthrough  :  all  which  he  told  her  in  spiritual  con- \nfidence. As  she  found  comfort  and  direction \nin  these  things,  she  wrote  them  down,  to  be  a \nhelp  for  herself  and  others ;  and  she  did  this \nby  stealth,  so  that  he  knew  not  of  it.  Later \non,  when  he  found  out  this  ghostly  theft,  he  re- \nproved her  for  it,  and,  forcing  her  to  give  up  to \nhim  the  writing,  he  burnt  all  of  it  that  was \nthere.  When,  however,  the  rest  of  it  was  given \nto  him,  and  he  was  going  to  treat  it  in  like  man- \nner, he  was  stopped  by  a  heavenly  message \nfrom  God  forbidding  it.  Thus  what  follows  re- \nmained unburnt,  for  the  most  part  just  as  she \nhad  written  it  with  her  own  hand.  Many  good \ninstructions  were  also  added  to  it  by  him,  after \nher  death,  in  her  name. \n\nThe  first  beginning  of  the  Servitor's  perfect \nconversion  to  God  took  place  when  he  was  in \nhis  eighteenth  year.  And  though  he  had  worn \nthe  religious  habit  for  the  five  previous  years, \nhis  soul  was  still  dissipated  within  him ;  and  it \nseemed  to  him,  that  if  God  only  preserved  him \nfrom  weightier  sins,  which  might  tarnish  his \ngood  name,  there  was  no  need  to  be  over-careful \nabout  ordinary  faults.     Nevertheless,  he  was  so \n\n\nCOMBATS  OF  A  BEGINNER.  7 \n\nkept  by  God  the  while,  that  he  had  always  an \nunsatisfied  feeling  within  him,  whenever  he \nturned  himself  to  the  objects  of  his  desires,  and \nit  seemed  to  him  that  it  must  be  something  quite \ndifferent  which  could  bring  peace  to  his  wild \nheart,  and  he  was  ill  at  ease  amid  his  restless \nways.  He  felt  at  all  times  a  gnawing  reproach \nwithin,  and  yet  he  could  not  help  himself, \nuntil  the  kind  God  set  him  free  from  it,  by \nturning  him.  His  companions  marvelled  at  the \nspeedy  change,  wondering  how  it  had  come  over \nhim ;  and  one  said  this,  and  another  that,  but \nas  to  how  it  was,  no  one  either  guessed  or  came \nnear  to  guessing  it;  for  it  was  a  secret  illu- \nmination and  drawing  sent  by  God,  and  it \nwrought  in  him  with  speed  a  turning  away  from \ncreatures. \n\n\nChapter  II. \n\nOf  the  preliminary  combats  of  a  beginner. \nSoon  after  this  impression  had  been  made \nupon  his  soul  by  God,  there  began  within  him \ncertain  preliminary  combats,  in  which  the  enemy \nsought  to  lead  him  astray  from  his  salvation. \nThe  inward  impulse,  which   he  had  received \n\n\n8  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nfrom  God,  urged  him  to  turn  away  entirely \nfrom  every  thing  which  might  be  a  hindrance \nto  him.  The  tempter  met  this  with  the  sug- \ngestion : — Bethink  thee  better.  It  is  easy  to \nbegin,  but  it  is  hard  to  bring  to  completion. \nThe  voice  within  put  forward  God's  might  and \naid.  The  opposing  voice  replied,  that  God's \npower  was  beyond  doubt,  but  that  His  willing- \nness was  doubtful.  This,  however,  was  clearly \nproved  to  him ;  for  the  kind  God  has  vouched \nfor  it  in  the  good  promise,  which  He  uttered \nwith  His  divine  mouth,  that  He  would  verily \nand  indeed  help  all  those  who  should  begin  this \nwork  in  His  name. \n\nWhen  grace  had  gained  the  victory  in  him \nin  this  combat,  there  came  a  hostile  thought  in \nfriendly  form,  counselling  him  thus  : — It  may \nbe  all  right,  that  thou  shouldst  amend  thy  life ; \nbut  do  not  set  about  it  so  impetuously.  Begin \nwith  such  moderation,  that  thou  mayest  be  able \nto  bring  it  to  completion.  Thou  shouldst  eat \nand  drink  heartily,  and  treat  thyself  well ;  and \nat  the  same  time  be  on  thy  guard  against  sins. \nBe  as  good  as  thou  pleasest  within  thyself,  and \nyet  with  such  moderation  that  the  world  with- \nout may  not  take  fright  at  thee,  as  the  saying \nis.     Is  the  heart  good,  all  is  good.     Surely  thou \n\n\nCOMBATS  OF  A  BEGINNER.  9 \n\nmayest  be  merry  with  people,  and  still  be  a \ngood  man.  Others  too  wish  to  go  to  heaven, \nand  yet  do  not  lead  a  life  of  exercises  such  as \nthine.  These  and  the  like  temptations  pressed \nhim  hard.  But  the  Eternal  Wisdom  overthrew \nfor  him  these  deceitful  counsels  thus  : — The \nman  who  tries  to  hold  by  the  tail  that  slippery \nfish,  the  eel,  and  to  begin  a  holy  life  lukewarmly, \nwill  be  deceived  in  both  cases ;  for  when  he \nthinks  he  has  them,  they  will  have  slipped \nfrom  him.  He  too,  who  seeks  with  tender \ntreatment  to  get  the  better  of  a  pampered  and \nrefractory  body,  wants  common  sense.  He  who \nwould  possess  this  world,  and  yet  serve  God \nperfectly,  tries  for  what  is  impossible,  and  seeks \nto  falsify  God's  own  teaching.  Wherefore,  if \nthou  art  minded  to  forsake  all,  do  so  to  good \npurpose.  He  tarried  somewhat  long  in  these \nthoughts ;  but  at  last  taking  courage,  he  turned \nhimself  away  from  every  thing  with  all  his \nmight. \n\nHis  untamed  spirit  had  in  the  beginning  to \ndie  many  deaths  in  breaking  away  from  frivo- \nlous companions.  Sometimes  nature  overcame \nhim,  and  he  would  go  to  them  to  cheer  himself; \nbut  it  commonly  fell  out,  that  he  went  to  them \nmerry,  and  left  them  sad;  for  their  talk  and \n\n\n10  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nsports  were  no  pleasure  to  him,  and  his  were \nunendurable  to  them.  At  times,  when  he  came \nto  them,  they  would  try  his  patience  with  such \nwords  as  these.  One  would  say : — What  strange \nways  thou  hast  taken  up !  Another  would  an- \nswer : — An  ordinary  life  is  the  safest.  While \na  third  would  add: — It  will  never  come  to  a \ngood  end.  Thus  they  passed  him  on  from  one \nto  another.  But  he  kept  silence,  as* one  dumb, \nand  he  thought  within  himself: — Ah,  gentle \nGod!  there  is  nothing  better  to  be  done  than \nto  flee  from  them.  If  thou  hadst  not  heard \nthese  cruel  words,  they  could  have  done  thee \nno  hurt. \n\nOne  thing  was  a  sore  suffering  to  him.  He \nhad  no  one  to  whom  he  could  pour  out  his \ngrief,  and  who  pursued  the  same  end  in  the \nsame  way,  that  he  had  been  called  to  pursue  it. \nTherefore  he  went  on  his  way  in  wretchedness, \npining  for  love;  and  with  mighty  efforts  he \nwithdrew  himself  from  creatures, — a  practice \nwhich  afterwards  became  very  sweet  to  him. \n\n\nSUPERNATURAL  KAPTURE.  11 \n\nChapter  III. \n\nOf  a  supernatural  rapture  which  befell  him. \n\nIt  happened  once  in  the  time  of  his  begin- \nnings, that  he  came  into  the  choir  on  St.  Agnes' \nday,  after  the  midday  meal  of  the  convent  was \nended.  He  was  there  alone,  and  he  stood  at \nthe  lower  stalls,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the \nchoir.  It  was,  moreover,  a  time  at  which  he \nwas  more  than  usually  crushed  down  by  a  heavy \nweight  of  sorrow.  Now  it  came  to  pass,  that  as \nhe  stood  there  all  desolate,  and  with  none  to \nhelp  or  shield  him,  his  soul  was  caught  up  in \necstasy,  whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body, \nand  he  saw  and  heard  what  no  tongue  can  tell. \nIt  was  without  form  or  mode,  and  yet  it  con- \ntained within  itself  the  entrancing  delightful- \nness  of  all  forms  and  modes.  His  heart  was \nathirst,  and  yet  satisfied;  his  mind  was  joyous \nand  blooming ;  wishes  were  stilled  in  him,  and \ndesires  had  departed.  He  did  but  gaze  fixedly \non  the  dazzling  effulgence,  in  which  he  found \noblivion  of  himself  and  all  things.  Was  it  day \nor  night,  he  knew  not.  It  was  a  breaking  forth \nof  the  sweetness  of  eternal  life,  felt  as  present \nin   the    stillness   of   unvarying   contemplation. \n\n\n12  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nHe  said  afterwards : — If  this  be  not  heaven,  I \nknow  not  what  heaven  is ;  for  not  all  the  suffer- \nings, which  a  man  could  suffer  here  below,  could \never  merit  for  him  in  justice  to  possess  a  joy \nlike  this  throughout  eternity.  This  overpower- \ning rapture  lasted  about  an  hour  and  a  half; \nbut  whether  his  soul  stayed  in  his  body,  or  was \nparted  from  it,  he  knew  not.  When  he  came \nto  himself  again,  he  was  altogether  like  a  man \nwho  has  come  from  another  world.  His  body \nwas  in  such  anguish  from  the  brief  moment, \nthat  he  had  never  deemed  it  possible  to  suffer \nso  much  in  so  short  a  time,  even  at  death.  He \ncame  to  himself  with  a  deep  groan,  and  his \nbody  sank  to  the  ground,  in  spite  of  him,  as  if \nhe  were  in  a  faint.  He  cried  aloud  piteously, \nand,  deeply  groaning,  exclaimed : — Woe  is  me, \nmy  God !  Where  was  I  ?  Where  am  I  now  ? \nAdding : — Ah,  Thou,  who  art  my  heart's  good ! \nnever  can  this  hour  pass  from  my  heart !  He \nwent  on  his  way  in  body,  and  no  one  saw,  or \ntook  note  of  any  thing  in  him  outwardly ;  but \nhis  soul  and  mind  were  full  within  of  heavenly \nmarvels.  The  heavenly  glances  came  again \nand  again  in  his  innermost  interior,  and  it \nseemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  floating  in  the \nair.     The  powers  of  his  soul  were  filled  full \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  ESPOUSALS.  13 \n\nof  the  sweet  taste  of  heaven ;  just  as,  when  a \nchoice  electuary  has  been  poured  out  of  a  box, \nthe  box  still  keeps  the  good  flavour  of  it.  This \nheavenly  taste  remained  with  him  for  a  long \ntime  afterwards,  and  gave  him  a  heavenly \nyearning  and  longing  after  God. \n\n\nChapter  IV. \n\nHow  he  spiritually  espoused  the  Eternal  Wisdom. \n\nThe  course  of  life,  which  he  pursued  for  a \nlong  time  after  this,  in  regard  to  interior  exer- \ncises, was  a  ceaseless  striving  after  actual  re- \ncollection in  interior  union  with  the  Eternal \nWisdom.  How  he  first  began  this,  may  be \nlearned  from  his  Little  Book  of  the  Eternal \nWisdom,  in  German  and  Latin,  which  God \nmoved  him  to  compose. \n\nHe  had  from  youth  up  a  loving  heart.  Now \nthe  Eternal  Wisdom  is  represented  in  Holy \nScripture  under  a  lovely  guise,  as  a  gracious \nloving  mistress,  who  displays  her  charms  with \nthe  intent  to  please  every  one ;  discoursing  the \nwhile  tenderly,  in  female  form,  of  the  desire \nshe  has  to  win  all  hearts  to  herself,  and  saying \n\n\n14  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENKY  SUSO. \n\nhow  deceitful  all  other  mistresses  are,  and  how \ntruly  loving  and  constant  she  is.  This  drew  his \nyoung  soul  to  her;  and  it  fared  with  him  as \nwith  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  whom  the \npanther  attracts  to  itself  with  the  sweet  smell \nthat  it  sends  forth.  In  this  winning  way  she  full \noften  wooed  him  to  her  spiritual  love,  especially \nin  the  books  called  the  books  of  Wisdom.  When \nthese  were  read  at  table,  and  he  listened  to  the \nendearing  words  as  they  were  read  out,  his  heart \nwas  right  glad  within  him,  and  he  began  to  feel \na  yearning  in  his  loving  soul,  and  thoughts \nwould  come  to  him  like  these: — Truly  thou \nshouldst  make  trial  of  thy  fortune,  whether  per- \nchance this  high  mistress,  of  whom  thou  hast \nheard  tell  such  marvels,  will  become  thy  love ; \nfor  in  truth  thy  wild  young  heart  cannot  long \nremain  without  a  love. \n\nIn  these  things  he  observed  her  closely,  and \nshe  pleased  him  well  in  heart  and  soul. \n\nIt  happened,  as  he  sat  at  table  another  morn- \ning, that  she  cried  aloud  in  the  person  of  Solo- \nmon, saying : — \"Audi,  fili  mi  I\"  &c.  Hearken, \nmy  child,  to  the  high  counsel  of  thy  father. \nWilt  thou  pursue  exalted  love,  then  take  thee \nfor  thy  most  sweet  love  the  Eternal  Wisdom ; \nfor  she  gives  to  all  her  lovers  youth  and  virtue, \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  ESPOUSALS.  15 \n\nnobility  and  riches,  honour  and  profit,  mighty- \npower  and  an  everlasting  name.  She  makes \nhim  who  loves  her  gracious  to  all;  she  teaches \nhim  courteous  bearing,  and  secures  him  praise \nbefore  the  world,  and  fame  among  the  multi- \ntudes. She  makes  him  dear  and  of  high  esteem \nto  God  and  men.  By  her  the  earth  was  created, \nthe  heavens  were  made  fast,  and  the  foundations \nof  the  abyss  were  laid.  He  who  possesses  her \nwalks  securely,  sleeps  quietly,  and  lives  in  safety \n(Prov.  i.-iv.). \n\nWhen  he  heard  this  beautiful  discourse \nread  out,  straightway  the  thought  came  to  his \nlonging  heart : — Ah  me !  what  a  love  is  this ! \nCould  she  but  become  mine,  I  were  indeed  well \noff.  These  thoughts  were  met  by  contrary  sug- \ngestions such  as  these: — Shall  I  love  what  I \nhave  never  seen,  nor  even  know  what  it  is  ?  A \nhandful  in  possession  is  better  than  a  houseful \nin  prospect.  They  who  raise  lofty  buildings \nand  love  venturesomely,  have  but  a  hungry \ntime  of  it.  Truly  this  loving  dame  were  a  good \nmistress,  did  she  let  her  servant  treat  his  body \nwell  and  tenderly.  But  far  from  this,  she \nsays: — He  who  seeks  good  food,  strong  wine, \nand  long  sleep,  can  never  win  Wisdom's  love \n(Prov.  xxi.  17).     Was  there  ever  a  siutor  sub- \n\n\n16  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\njected  to  such  hard  terms  as  these?  A  thought \nfrom  God  answered: — By  ancient  right,  love \nand  suffering  go  together.  There  is  no  wooer \nbut  he  is  a  sufferer  ;  no  lover  but  he  is  a \nmartyr.  Therefore  it  is  not  unjust  that  he  who \naims  so  high  in  love  should  meet  with  some \nthings  repugnant  to  him.  Eemember  all  the \nmishaps  and  the  vexations  which  earthly  lovers \nsuffer,  whether  with  their  will  or  against  it. \nHe  was  greatly  strengthened  to  persevere  by \ngood  inspirations  of  this  sort.  And  the  like \nof  this  often  happened  to  him.  Sometimes  he \nhad  a  good  will,  while  at  other  times  he  would \nlet  his  heart  go  after  perishable  love.  Never- \ntheless, to  whatever  side  he  turned,  he  always \nfound  a  something  in  every  object  which  would \nnot  let  him  give  his  heart  to  it  without  reserve, \nand  which  drove  him  back  from  it. \n\nOne  day,  the  reading  at  table  was  about \nWisdom,  and  his  heart  was  stirred  and  set  on \nfire  by  it.  Wisdom  spoke  thus: — As  the  lovely \nrose-tree  is  full  of  bloom,  and  the  lofty  uncut \nLibanus  yields  its  fragrance,  and  the  pure  bal- \nsam sends  forth  its  odours  (Ecclus.  xxiv.),  even \nso  I  am  a  blooming,  fragrant,  and  pure  love, \nwithout  anger  and  bitterness,  a  very  abyss  of \nloving  sweetness.     All   other   mistresses  have \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  ESPOUSALS.  17 \n\nsweet  words,  but  a  bitter  recompense.  Their \nhearts  are  deadly  nets,  their  hands  are  manacles, \ntheir  discourse  honied  poison,  and  their  pastime \ninfamy  (Eccles.  vii.  27).  He  thought: — How \ntrue  is  this !  And  then  he  said  to  himself  joy- \nfully : — Yes,  it  must  be  so.  She  must  indeed \nbe  my  love,  and  I  will  be  her  servant.  And  the \nthought  came  to  him : — Ah  God,  if  I  might  but \nonce  see  my  love  !  if  I  might  but  once  converse \nwith  her!  Ah!  what  is  the  form  of  my  be- \nloved, in  whom  so  many  delightful  things  lie \nhid?  Is  she  God  or  of  human  kind?  woman \nor  man?  art  or  cunning?  or  what  can  she  be? \nWhile  he  thus  strove  to  see  her,  so  far  as  she \ncould  be  seen  with  the  soul's  eyes  in  what  Holy \nScripture  has  made  known  concerning  her,  she \nshowed  herself  to  him  in  this  wise.  She  floated \nhigh  above  him  in  a  choir  of  clouds ;  she  shone \nlike  the  morning  star,  and  her  radiance  was \ndazzling  as  the  rising  sun ;  her  crown  was  eter- \nnity ;  her  vesture  bliss ;  her  words  sweetness ; \nher  embrace  the  fulness  of  every  delight;  she \nwas  far,  yet  near;  high,  yet  lowly;  she  was \npresent,  yet  hidden ;  she  forbade  not  to  con- \nverse with  her,  yet  no  one  can  comprehend \nher.  She  reaches  above  the  summit  of  the \nheavens,  and  touches'  the  depths  of  the  abyss; \nc \n\n\n18  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nshe  spreads  herself  from  end  to  end  mightily, \nand  disposes  all  things  sweetly.  When  at  one \nmoment  he  thought  he  saw  in  her  a  beautiful \nmaiden,  forthwith  she  appeared  to  him  as  a \nnoble  youth.  Sometimes  she  showed  herself  as \none  rich  in  wisdom ;  at  other  times  as  overflow- \ning with  love.  She  drew  nigh  to  him  lovingly, \nand  greeted  him  full  smilingly,  and  sweetly  said \nto  him:  —  \"Prsebe,  fili  mi,  cor  tuum  mihi! \nGive  me  thy  heart,  my  child!\"  (Prov.  xxiii. \n26.)  Thereupon  he  bowed  himself  to  her  feet, \nand  thanked  her  from  his  inmost  heart  out  of \nthe  depths  of  his  lowliness.  This  was  what \nwas  then  granted  to  him,  and  no  more  than \nthis  could  he  obtain. \n\nAfterwards,  when  he  dwelt  in  thought  upon \nthe  all-lovely  one,  he  used  commonly  to  put  this \nquestion  to  himself,  and  ask  his  love-sick  heart : \n— Ah,  my  heart !  from  what  source  do  all  love \nand  graciousness  flow  f  Whence  come  all  ten- \nderness, beauty,  joyousness,  and  loveableness  ? \nComes  it  not  all  from  the  outbursting  fountain- \nhead  of  the  pure  Godhead  !  Up  then,  my  heart, \nmy  senses,  my  mind ;  up,  then,  and  cast  your- \nselves into  the  fathomless  abyss  of  all  lovely \nthings.  Who  shall  keep  me  from  Thee  now? \nAh !  I  embrace  Thee  still  to-day  with  the  long- \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  ESPOUSALS.  19 \n\nings  of  my  burning  heart.  And  then  there \npressed  itself  as  it  were,  into  his  soul,  the \nprimal  outflow  of  all  good,  and  in  it  he  found \nin  spiritual  fashion  all  that  is  beautiful,  lovely, \nand  desirable,  for  all  was  there  in  a  way  in- \neffable. \n\nThus  it  grew  into  a  habit  with  him,  when- \never he  heard  songs  of  praise,  or  the  sweet \nmusic  of  stringed  instruments,  or  lays,  or  dis- \ncourse about  earthly  love,  immediately  to  turn \nhis  heart  and  mind  inwards,  and  gaze  abstract- \nedly upon  his  loveliest  love,  whence  all  love \nflows.  It  were  impossible  to  tell  how  often \nwith  weeping  eyes,  from  out  the  unfathomable \ndepths  of  his  outspread  heart,  he  embraced  this \nlovely  form,  and  pressed  it  tenderly  to  his  heart. \nAnd  thus  it  fared  with  him  as  with  a  sucking \nchild,  which  lies  encircled  by  its  mother's  arms \nupon  her  breast.  As  the  child  with  its  head  and \nthe  movement  of  its  body  lifts  itself  up  against \nits  tender  mother,  and  by  these  loving  gestures \ntestifies  its  heart's  delight,  even  so  his  heart \nmany  a  time  leapt  up  within  his  body  towards \nthe  delightful  presence  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom, \nand  melted  away  in  sensible  affections.  At  such \nmoments  the  thought  would  come  to  him : — Ah, \nLord !  were  only  a  queen  my  spouse,  it  would \n\n\n20  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmake  my  heart  rejoice.  Ah  me  !  and  Thou  art \nnow  my  heart's  empress,  Thou,  the  giver  of \nevery  grace !  In  Thee  I  have  wealth  enough, \nand  all  the  power  I  want.  As  for  what  earth \ncontains,  I  wish  for  it  no  longer.  Amid  these \ncontemplations  his  countenance  became  all  joy- \nous, his  eyes  godlike,  and  his  hea*rt  full  of \njubilee,  while  all  his  interior  senses  sang  \"  Super \nsalutem,\"  &c.  (Wisd.  vii.  10).  Above  all  good \nfortune,  and  above  all  beauty  art  Thou,  O  my \nheart's  good  fortune  and  beauty ;  for  good  for- \ntune has  followed  me  with  Thee,  and  I  possess \nwith  Thee  and  in  Thee  every  good. \n\n\nChapter  V. \n\nHow  he  inscribed  upon  his  heart  the  gracious  Name  of \nJesus. \n\nAt  this  season  there  came  down  into  his \nsoul  a  flame  of  intense  fire,  which  made  his \nheart  all  burning  with  divine  love.  Now  one \nday  that  this  feeling  was  strong  within  him,  and \nhe  was  suffering  exceedingly  from  the  torments \nof  divine  love,  he  went  into  his  cell  to  his  place \nof  retirement,  and,  rapt  in  loving  contemplation, \n\n\nNAME  OF  JESUS.  21 \n\nspoke  thus : — Ah,  sweet  Lord !  would  that  I \ncould  devise  some  love-token,  which  might  be \nan  everlasting  sign  of  love  between  me  and \nThee,  as  a  memorial  that  I  am  Thy  beloved,  and \nThou  art  my  heart's  only  beloved ;  a  sign  which \nno  oblivion  might  be  ever  able  to  efface.  In \nthis  fervour  of  devotion,  he  threw  back  his  sca- \npular, and,  baring  his  breast,  took  in  his  hand  a \nstyle ;  then,  looking  at  his  heart,  he  said : — Ah, \nmighty  God !  give  me  to-day  strength  and  power \nto  accomplish  my  desire;  for  Thou  must  be \nburnt  to-day  into  my  very  inmost  heart.  There- \nupon he  set  to  work,  and  thrust  the  style  into \nthe  flesh  above  his  heart,  drawing  it  backwards \nand  forwards,  up  and  down,  until  he  had  in- \nscribed the  Name  of  Jesus  upon  his  heart.  The \nblood  flowed  plenteously  out  of  his  flesh  from \nthe  sharp  stabs,  and  ran  down  over  his  body  into \nhis  bosom ;  but  this  was  so  ravishing  a  sight  to \nhim  through  the  ardour  of  his  love,  that  he \ncared  little  for  the  pain.  When  he  had  finished, \nhe  went  thus  torn  and  bleeding  from  his  cell  to \nthe  pulpit  under  the  crucifix,  and  kneeling  down \nsaid : — Ah,  Lord !  my  heart  and  soul's  only  love ! \nlook  now  upon  my  heart's  intense  desire.  Lord, \nI  cannot  imprint  Thee  any  deeper  in  myself; \nbut  do  Thou,  O  Lord,  I  beseech  Thee,  complete \n\n\n22  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  work,  and  imprint  Thyself  deep  down  into \nmy  very  inmost  heart,  and  so  inscribe  Thy  holy \nName  in  me,  that  Thou  mayest  never  more  de- \npart from  my  heart. \n\nThus  he  bore  upon  him  for  a  long  time  love's \nwound,  until  at  length  it  healed  up;  but  the \nName  of  Jesus  remained  upon  his  heart,  as  he \nhad  wished,  and  the  letters  were  about  the \nbreadth  of  a  smooth  stalk  of  corn,  and  the  length \nof  a  joint  of  the  little  finger.  In  this  way  he \nbore  the  Name  upon  his  heart  until  his  death, \nand  at  every  beat  of  his  heart  the  Name  moved \nwith  it.  When  newly  made,  it  was  very  visible. \nHe  bore  it  secretly,  so  that  no  one  ever  saw  it, \nexcept  a  companion  of  his,  to  whom  he  showed \nit  in  spiritual  confidence.  Thenceforth,  when \nany  trouble  befell  him,  he  used  to  look  at  the \nlove-token,  and  his  trouble  became  lighter.  It \nwas  his  wont  also  at  times  to  say  within  himself \nfond  words  like  these : — See,  Lord,  earthly  lovers \nwrite  their  beloved's  name  upon  their  garments  ; \nbut  I  have  written  Thee  upon  the  fresh  blood  of \nmy  heart. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  after  matins,  when  he \nhad  finished  praying,  he  went  into  his  cell,  and \nsitting  down  upon  his  chair,  he  placed  the  book \nof  the  lives  of  the  ancient  Fathers  under  his \n\n\nCONSOLATIONS  OF  BEGINNERS.      23 \n\nhead  for  a  pillow.  Thereupon  he  was  rapt \nin  ecstasy,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  light \nstreamed  forth  from  his  heart ;  and  as  he  looked, \nthere  appeared  upon  his  heart  a  cross  of  gold, \nand  there  were  worked  into  it  in  noble  fashion \nmany  precious  stones,  which  gave  forth  in  bril- \nliant light  the  Name  of  Jesus. \n\nThen  the  Servitor  took  his  mantle,  and  drew \nit  over  his  heart,  intending,  if  he  could,  to  cover \nup  the  bright  light  which  streamed  from  it,  so \nthat  no  one  might  behold  it.  But  the  fiery \nradiance  shone  forth  so  ravishingly  that  all  his \nattempts  to  hide  it  were  of  no  avail  against  the \npower  of  its  loveliness. \n\n\nChapter  VI. \n\nOf  the  foretaste  of  divine  consolations,  with  which  God \nsometimes  allures  beginners. \n\nIt  was  his  custom  to  go  into  his  chapel  after \nmatins,  and  sitting  down  upon  his  chair  to  take \na  little  rest.  He  sat  there  but  a  short  time, \nuntil  the  watchman  announced  the  break  of \nday ;  when,  opening  his  eyes,  he  used  to  fall  at \nonce  on  his  knees,  and  salute  the  rising  morn- \ning star,  heaven's  gentle  queen,  with  this  in  ten- \n\n\n24  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ntion  that,  as  the  little  birds  in  summer  greet  the \ndaylight,  and  receive  it  joyously,  even  so  did \nhe  mean  to  greet  with  joyful  longings  her,  who \nbrings  the  light  of  the  everlasting  day ;  and  he \ndid  not  merely  say  these  words,  but  he  accom- \npanied them  with  a  sweet  still  melody  in  his \nsoul. \n\nOnce  at  this  time,  while  he  sat  thus  at  rest, \nhe  heard  within  him  something  which  rang  so \ntenderly,  that  his  whole  heart  was  stirred  by  it. \nThe  voice  sang  in  tones  sweet  and  loud,  as  the \nmorning  star  uprose,  these  words: — \"Stella \nmaris  Maria  hodie  processit  ad  ortum :  Mary  the \nmorning  star  has  risen  to-day.\"  This  strain  re- \nsounded in  him  with  such  unearthly  sweetness, \nthat  it  filled  his  whole  soul  with  gladness, \nand  he  sang  with  it  joyously.  After  they \nhad  thus  sung  together,  he  was  embraced  in  a \nway  ineffable,  and  it  was  said  to  him  at  the \ntime : — The  more  lovingly  thou  embracest  me, \nand  the  more  spiritually  thou  kissest  me,  so \nmuch  the  more  ravishingly  and  lovingly  shalt \nthou  be  embraced  by  my  glory.  Upon  this  he \nopened  his  eyes,  and,  the  tears  rolling  down \nhis  cheeks,  he  saluted  the  rising  morning  star \naccording  to  his  custom.  When  this  first \nsalutation  was   ended,  he  next   saluted  with  a \n\n\nCONSOLATIONS  OF  BEGINNEES.      25 \n\nvenia*  the  gentle  Eternal  Wisdom  in  the  words \nof  the  prayer,  beginning  u  Anima  mea  desidera- \nvit  te,  \"&c.  This  was  followed  by  a  third  saluta- \ntion, with  another  venia,  which  he  addressed  to \nthe  highest  and  most  fervent  of  the  Seraphim, \neven  to  the  one  who  flames  upwards  in  hottest \nand  fieriest  love  towards  the  Eternal  Wisdom, \nand  this  he  did  with  the  intention  that  the  spirit \nshould  so  inflame  his  heart  with  divine  love, \nthat  he  might  both  be  on  fire  himself  and  en- \nkindle the  hearts  of  all  men  with  his  loving \nwords  and  teaching.  These  were  the  saluta- \ntions which  he  made  every  morning. \n\nOne  night  in  the  carnival  time,  when  he \nhad  prolonged  his  prayer  until  the  watchman's \nhorn  announced  the  daybreak,  the  thought  came \nto  him : — Sit  a  little  longer,  before  thou  greet- \nest  the  bright  morning  star.  Thereupon,  his \nsenses  being  thus  for  a  short  time  lulled  to  rest, \nit  seemed  to  him  that  the  heavenly  spirits  began \nwith  loud  voice  to  intone  the  beautiful  respon- \nsory,  \"  Surge  et  illuminare,  Jerusalem  (Isaias \nlx.  1) :  Arise  and  be  illuminated,  Jerusalem ;\" \nand  it  rang  with  exceeding  sweetness  in  his \nsoul.     They  had  scarcely  sung  a  little,  when \n\n*  A  monastic  term,  which  means  to  kneel  down  and \nkiss  the  ground. \n\n\n26  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhis  soul  became  so  full  of  the  heavenly  strain, \nthat  his  frail  body  could  bear  no  more,  and, \nopening  his  eyes,  his  heart  overflowed,  and  the \nburning  tears  streamed  down  his  cheeks. \n\nOnce  at  this  time,  as  he  was  sitting  thus,  it \nseemed  to  him  in  a  vision  that  he  was  carried \ninto  another  land,  and  that  his  angel  stood  there \nbefore  him  full  tenderly  at  his  right  hand. \nThe  Servitor  sprang  up  at  once,  and,  embracing \nhis  dear  angel,  clung  round  him,  and  pressed \nhim  to  his  soul  as  lovingly  as  he  could,  so  that \nthere  was  naught  between  them,  as  it  appeared \nto  him.  Then  in  sorrowful  accents  and  with \nweeping  eyes  he  exclaimed  out  of  the  fulness  of \nhis  heart : — O  my  angel,  whom  the  faithful \nGod  has  given  me  for  my  consolation  and  guard, \nI  pray  thee,  by  the  love  thou  hast  for  God,  not \nto  leave  me.  The  angel  answered  him  and  said: \n— Canst  thou  not  trust  God  !  Behold,  God  has \nso  lovingly  embraced  thee  in  His  eternity,  that \nHe  will  never  leave  thee. \n\nIt  came  to  pass  once,  after  the  time  of  his \nsufferings  was  over,  that  early  one  morning  he \nwas  surrounded  in  a  vision  by  the  heavenly \nspirits.  Whereupon  he  besought  one  of  the \nbright  princes  of  heaven  to  show  him  the  man- \nner of  God's  secret  dwelling  in  his  soul.     The \n\n\nDIVINE  CONSOLATIONS.  27 \n\nangel  answered  thus :  —  Cast,  then,  a  joyous \nglance  into  thyself,  and  see  how  God  plays  His \nplay  of  love  with  thy  loving  soul.  He  looked  im- \nmediately, and  saw  that  his  body  over  his  heart \nwas  clear  as  crystal,  and  that  in  the  centre  of \nhis  heart  was  sitting  tranquilly,  in  lovely  form, \nthe  Eternal  Wisdom;  beside  whom  there  sat, \nfull  of  heavenly  longing,  the  Servitor's  soul, \nwhich,  leaning  lovingly  towards  God's  side,  and \nencircled  by  God's  arms,  and  pressed  close  to  His \ndivine  heart,  lay  thus  entranced  and  drowned \nin  love  in  the  arms  of  the  beloved  God. \n\n\nChapter  VII. \n\nHow  one,  who  had  begun  well,  was  drawn  onward  in  his \nsearch  after  divine  consolation. \n\nHe  had  made  anew  for  himself  certain \nbands,  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to  chastise \nhis  body.  Now,  on  the  night  before  the  feast \nof  All  Angels,  it  seemed  to  him  in  a  vision  that \nhe  heard  angelic  strains  and  sweet  heavenly \nmelody  ;  and  this  filled  him  with  such  gladness \nthat  he  forgot  all  his  sufferings.  Then  one  of \nthe  angels  said  to  him : — Behold,  with  what  joy \nthou  dost  hear  us  sing  the  song  of  eternity ;  even \n\n\n28  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nso,  with  like  joy,  do  we  hear  thee  sing  the  song \nof  the  venerable  Eternal  Wisdom.  He  added \nfurther: — This  is  a  portion  of  the  song  which \nthe  dear  elect  saints  will  sing  joyously  at  the \nlast  day,  when  they  shall  see  themselves  con- \nfirmed in  the  everlasting  bliss  of  eternity.  At \nanother  time,  on  the  same  festival,  after  he  had \nspent  many  hours  in  contemplating  the  joys  of \nthe  angels,  and  daybreak  was  at  hand,  there \ncame  to  him  a  youth,  who  bore  himself  as  though \nhe  were  a  heavenly  musician  sent  to  him  by \nGod;  and  with  the  youth  there  came  many \nother  noble  youths,  in  manner  and  bearing  like \nthe  first,  save  only  that  he  seemed  to  have  some \npreeminence  above  the  rest,  as  if  he  were  a \nprince-angel.  Now  this  same  angel  came  up  to \nthe  Servitor  right  blithely,  and  said  that  God \nhad  sent  them  down  to  him,  to  bring  him  hea- \nvenly joys  amid  his  sufferings ;  adding  that  he \nmust  cast  off  all  his  sorrows  from  his  mind  and \nbear  them  company,  and  that  he  must  also \ndance  with  them  in  heavenly  fashion.  Then \nthey  drew  the  Servitor  by  the  hand  into  the \ndance,  and  the  youth  began  a  joyous  ditty  about \nthe  infant  Jesus,  which  runs  thus :  \"  In  dulci \njubilo,\"  &c.  When  the  Servitor  heard  the  dear \nName  of  Jesus  sounding  thus  sweetly,  he  be- \n\n\nDIVINE  CONSOLATIONS.  29 \n\ncame  so  blithesome  in  heart  and  feeling,  that \nthe  very  memory  of  his  sufferings  vanished.  It \nwas  a  joy  to  him  to  see  how  exceeding  loftily \nand  freely  they  bounded  in  the  dance.  The \nleader  of  the  song  knew  right  well  how  to  guide \nthem,  and  he  sang  first,  and  they  sang  after \nhim  in  the  jubilee  of  their  hearts.  Thrice  the \nleader  repeated  the  burden  of  the  song,  \"  Ergo \nmerito,\"  &c.  This  dance  was  not  of  a  kind \nlike  those  which  are  danced  in  this  world; \nbut  it  was  a  heavenly  movement,  swelling  up \nand  falling  back  again  into  the  wild  abyss  of \nGod's  hiddenness.  These  and  the  like  heavenly \nconsolations  were  granted  to  him  innumerable \ntimes  during  these  years,  but  especially  at  the \ntimes  when  he  was  encompassed  with  great \nsufferings,  and  they  made  it  all  the  easier  for \nhim  to  bear  them. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  it  was  shown  in  a \nvision  to  a  certain  holy  person,  when  the  Ser- \nvitor had  gone  to  the  altar  to  say  Mass,  how \nthat  he  was  gloriously  arrayed  with  a  vestment \nof  resplendent  love,  and  that  divine  grace  kept \ndropping  upon  his  soul  like  dew,  and  that  he \nwas  one  with  God.  Behind  him  there  were \nseen  standing  at  the  altar  a  multitude  of  kindly- \nlooking  children  with  burning  candles,  one  be- \n\n\n30  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhind  the  other.  The  children  stretched  ont \ntheir  arms,  each  one  severally,  and  embraced \nhim  as  lovingly  as  they  could,  and  pressed  him \nto  their  hearts.  The  person  in  amazement  asked \nwho  they  were,  and  what  they  meant.  They \nanswered : — We  are  your  brethren,  and  we \npraise  God  with  joy  in  eternal  bliss,  and  are \nbeside  you  and  take  care  of  you  at  all  times. \nThe  holy  person  said  to  them  in  the  vision : — \nDear  angels,  what  mean  you  by  embracing  this \nman  so  lovingly !  They  answered  : — He  is  so \nvery  dear  to  us,  that  we  have  much  to  do  with \nhim;  and  know  this;  God  works  unspeakable \nmarvels  in  his  soul,  and  whatever  he  asks  of \nGod  earnestly,  God  will  never  deny  him. \n\n\nChapter  VIII. \n\nOf  certain  visions. \n\nHe  had  at  this  time  very  many  visions  of \nfuture  and  hidden  things,  and  God  gave  him \nan  experimental  knowledge,  so  far  as  was \npossible,  of  how  things  were  in  heaven,  hell, \nand  purgatory.  It  happened  to  him  com- \nmonly, that  many  souls  appeared  to  him  upon \n\n\nVISIONS.  31 \n\ntheir  leaving  this  world,  and  told  him  how  it \nhad  fared  with  them,  what  sins  were  the  cause \nof  their  purgatory,  how  they  could  be  helped, \nor  what  wasw  their  reward  from  God.  Among \nothers  there  appeared  to  him  the  blessed  Master \nEckart,  and  the  holy  brother  John  der  Fucrer \nof  Strasburg.  The  Master  signified  to  him, \nthat  he  was  in  exceeding  glory,  into  which  his \nsoul  was  quite  transformed,  and  made  godlike \nin  God.  Upon,  this  the  Servitor  besought  him \nto  tell  him  two  things.  The  first  was,  the \nmanner  in  which  those  persons  dwell  in  God, \nwho  with  real  and  genuine  detachment  have \nsought  to  rest  in  the  supreme  Truth  alone? \nTo  this  he  answered,  that  no  words  can  tell  the \nway  in  which  these  persons  are  taken  up  into \nthe  modeless  abyss  of  the  divine  essence.  The \nsecond  thing  was ;  what  exercise  is  most  calcu- \nlated to  help  forward  him,  whose  earnest  desire \nis  to  arrive  at  this  state  ?  The  Master  replied, \nthat  he  must  die  to  himself  by  deep  detach- \nment, receive  every  thing  as  from  God  and  not \nfrom  creatures,  and  establish  himself  in  un- \nruffled patience  towards  all  men,  however  wolf- \nish they  may  be. \n\nThe  other  brother,  John,  also  showed  him \nin   a  vision   the   ravishing   beauty  with  which \n\n\n32  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SITSO. \n\nhis  soul  was  glorified,  and  of  him  too  he  asked \nthe  explanation  of  another  point.  The  ques- \ntion was:  which  among  all  spiritual  exercises \nis  the  most  painful,  and  at  the  same  time  the \nmost  profitable?  The  brother  answered,  that \nthere  is  nothing  more  painful,  and  yet  more \nprofitable  for  a  man,  than,  when  forsaken  by \nGod,  to  go  out  of  himself  by  patience,  and  thus \nto  leave  God  for  God. \n\nThe  Servitor's  own  father,  who  had  led  a \nvery  worldly  life,  appeared  to  him  after  death, \nand  with  a  woful  aspect  showed  him  his  agon- \nising purgatory,  and  the  chief  sins  for  which \nhe  had  incurred  it,  and  explained  to  him  dis- \ntinctly how  he  was  to  help  him.  The  Servitor \ndid  this ;  and  afterwards  his  father  appeared  to \nhim,  and  told  him  that  he  had  been  set  free. \nHis  holy  mother  also,  in  whose  heart  and  body \nGod  worked  many  marvels  in  her  lifetime,  ap- \npeared to  him  in  a  vision,  and  made  known  to \nhim  the  great  reward  which  she  had  received \nfrom  God.  The  like  happened  to  him  in  the \ncase  of  numberless  other  souls;  and  it  was  a \nsource  of  pleasure  to  him,  and  during  a  long \ntime  it  gave  him  instruction  and  support  in  the \ncourse  which  he  was  then  pursuing. \n\n\nHIS  BEHAVIOUR  AT  TABLE.  33 \n\nChapter  IX. \n\nOf  the  way  in  which  he  went  to  table. \n\nWhen  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  to  table, \nhe  used  to  kneel  down  in  loving  contemplation \nbefore  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  and  beseech  Him \nvery  earnestly  to  go  with  him  to  table  and  eat \nwith  him,  saying: — Most  sweet  Jesus  Christ, \nI  invite  Thee  with  the  longing  desire  of  my \nheart,  and  I  pray  Thee,  even  as  Thou  dost \nbountifully  feed  me,  to  grant  me  also  to-day \nThy  gentle  presence.  Then,  on  sitting  down \nto  table,  he  would  place  opposite  to  him,  as  his \ntable-companion,  the  dear  guest  of  pure  souls, \nand  he  would  look  at  Him  very  tenderly,  and \noften  bow  himself  towards  Him  on  the  side  of \nHis  heart.  At  each  course  that  was  set  before \nhim,  he  used  to  lift  up  the  plate  towards  his \nDivine  host,  that  He  might  give  His  holy  bless- \ning to  it,  and  he  would  often  say  to  Him,  with \na  loving  familiarity : — O  my  Lord,  bless  what \nis  before  us,  and  eat  with  Thy  servant.  Such \nwere  the  words  of  tenderness  with  which  he; \nwould  address  Him.  Again,  before  he  drank \nhe  would  lift  up  the  goblet  and  ask  Him  to \ndrink  first  of  it.  At  table  he  used  to  drink  five \ndraughts,  and  he  drank  them  out  of  the  five \nD \n\n\n34  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwounds  of  his  dear  Lord;  and  because  water \nand  blood  flowed  from  the  Divine  side,  he  drank \nthe  last  draught  in  two.  He  ate  the  first  and \nthe  last  mouthful  in  union  with  the  love  of  the \nmost  loving  heart  which  earth  could  possibly \nproduce,  and  with  the  hottest  love  of  the  high- \nest of  the  seraphim,  desiring  the  while  that  his \nheart  might  have  a  full  share  in  this  love.  He \nused  to  dip  the  food  which  he  disliked  into  the \nwounded  heart  of  his  beloved,  in  firm  trust  that \nit  could  then  no  longer  hurt  him. \n\nHe  had  a  fondness  for  fruit,  but  God  would \nnot  let  him  indulge  it.  He  had  once  a  vision,  in \nwhich  it  seemed  to  him  that  some  one  offered \nhim  an  apple,  saying: — Take  this;  it  is  what \nthou  art  so  fond  of.  He  answered : — Nay !  all \nmy  fondness  is  for  the  lovely  Eternal  Wisdom. \nThe  other  replied  to  him  that  this  was  not  true, \nseeing  that  he  took  too  much  delight  in  fruit. \nThis  made  him  feel  ashamed  of  himself,  and \nfor  two  years  he  ate  no  more  fruit,  much  though \nhe  longed  for  it  all  the  time.  When  the  two \nyears  were  ended,  and  the  next  year  the  fruit \ncrop  had  failed,  so  that  the  convent  was  with- \nout any,  the  Servitor,  having  now  after  many \ncombats  gained  the  mastery  over  himself,  and \nwishing  to  be  no  longer  singular  at  table  about \n\n\nHIS  BEHAVIOUR  AT  TABLE.  35 \n\nfruit,  besought  Almighty  God,  if  it  was  His  will \nthat  he  should  eat  fruit,  to  supply  the  whole  con- \nvent with  it.  And  it  came  to  pass  accordingly ; \nfor  when  it  was  morning,  an  unknown  person \narrived  with  a  large  quantity  of  new  pennies \nfor  the  convent,  and  desired  that  fresh  apples \nmight  be  bought  up  every  where  with  them. \nThis  was  done,  and  thus  the  convent  had  fruit \nenough  for  a  long  time,  and  the  Servitor  began \nagain  to  eat  fruit  with  thankfulness. \n\nHe  used  to  divide  the  large  fruit  into  four \nparts ;  three  of  which  he  ate  in  the  Name  of  the \nHoly  Trinity,  and  the  fourth  in  union  with  the \nlove  with  which  the  heavenly  Mother  gave  her \ngentle  child  Jesus  a  little  apple  to  eat.  This \nlast  part  he  ate  without  cutting  it,  because  little \nchildren  usually  eat  it  in  this  way,  uncut.  From \nChristmas  Day,  for  many  days  following,  he  did \nnot  eat  the  fourth  part,  but  he  offered  it  in  con- \ntemplation to  the  gentle  Mother,  praying  her  to \ngive  it  to  her  dear  little  Son,  for  whose  sake  he \nwould  meanwhile  go  without  it. \n\nIf  sometimes  he  began  eating  or  drinking \ntoo  eagerly,  the  presence  of  his  venerable  com- \npanion would  make  him  ashamed  of  himself, \nand  he  would  give  himself  a  penance  for  it. \n\nOnce  there  came  to  him  from  another  city \n\n\n36  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\na  good  person,  who  told  him  that  God  had  said \nthese  words  to  him  in  a  vision  : — If  thou  would- \nest  learn  how  to  conduct  thyself  at  table  as  is \nmeet,  go  to  my  Servitor  and  bid  him  tell  thee  all \nhis  ways. \n\n\nChapter  X. \n\nHow  he  began  the  New  Year. \nIt  is  the  custom  in  certain  parts  of  Swabia, \nhis  native  country,  for  the  young  men  to  go  out \nin  their  folly  on  New- Year's  Night,  and  beg  for \nMay  wreaths :  that  is  to  say,  they  sing  ditties \nand  recite  pretty  verses,  and  do  all  they  can, \nwith  such  like  courtesies,  to  make  their  sweet- \nhearts give  them  garlands.  Now,  when  he  heard \nof  this,  the  thought  came  at  once  to  his  young \nand  loving  heart,  that  he  too  would  go  on  that \nsame  night  to  his  Eternal  Love,  and  beg  a  May \nwreath.  Accordingly,  before  break  of  day  he \nwent  to  the  image  of  the  most  pure  Mother, \nwhich  represents  her  holding  in  her  arms,  and \npressing  to  her  heart,  her  gentle  Child,  the \nbeautiful  Eternal  Wisdom ;  and,  kneeling  down \nbefore  it,  he  began  with  the  sweet  voiceless \nmelody  of  his  soul  to  sing  a  sequence  to  the \nMother,  praying  her  leave  to  beg  a  garland  from \n\n\nnew-year's  night.  37 \n\nher  Child,  and,  should  he  fail  to  obtain  this, \nthat  she  would  help  him  in  his  suit.  And  so \nearnest  was  his  prayer,  and  so  little  could  he  re- \nstrain himself  from  weeping,  that  the  hot  tears \nkept  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  When  his  song \nwas  ended,  he  turned  him  to  his  heart's  love,  the \nEternal  Wisdom,  and  bowing  down  at  His  feet, \ngreeted  Him  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart, \nand  praised  and  celebrated  Him  as  one  who  far \nsurpasses  all  this  world's  fairest  maidens  in  come- \nliness, nobility,  virtue,  gentleness,  and  freedom, \nunited  with  everlasting  majesty.  And  this  he \ndid  with  songs  and  words,  with  thoughts  and \nlongings,  as  best  he  could ;  and  much  he  wished \nthat  he  could  be,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  the  fore- \nrunner of  all  lovers  and  loving  hearts,  and  the \ninventor  of  all  tender  thoughts,  words,  and  sen- \ntiments, that  the  most  worthy  One  might  be \nlauded  with  due  love  by  His  unworthy  Servitor. \nThen  at  length  he  broke  forth  into  words  like \nthese : — Ah,  my  beloved !  Thou  art  indeed  an \nEaster  Day  of  joy  to  me.  Thou  art  the  bliss \nof  summer  to  my  heart,  and  the  hour  of  my  de- \nlight. Thou  art  the  loved  One,  whom  alone  my \nyoung  heart  loves  and  thinks  upon,  and  for \nwhom  it  has  scorned  all  earthly  love.  Let  this \navail  me  now,  my  heart's  beloved,  and  let  me \n\n\n38  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nobtain  a  garland  from  Thee  to-day.  Ah,  gentle \nheart !  do  this  for  Thy  divine  virtue's  sake,  and \nfor  Thy  innate  goodness,  and  let  me  not  depart \nfrom  Thee  with  empty  hands  this  New  Year's \nDay.  Ah  !  how  well  this  will  beseem  Thee,  O \nsweet  sweetness !  Eemember  that  one  of  Thy \ndear  servants  has  told  us  of  Thee,  that  in  Thee \nthere  is  not  nay  and  yea,  but  only  yea  and  yea \n(2  Cor.  i.  19).  Therefore,  my  heart's  beloved, \nsay  to  me  to-day  a  loving  yea  in  regard  to  Thy \nheavenly  gift,  and  as  foolish  lovers  obtain  a  gar- \nland from  their  loves,  so  let  my  soul  receive \nto-day,  as  a  New  Year's  gift,  some  special  grace, \nor  some  new  light  from  Thy  fair  hand,  my  own \nsweet  love,  O  Divine  Wisdom.  These  and  the \nlike  prayers  he  used  to  offer  up  there,  and  he \nnever  went  away  thence  with  his  prayer  un- \ngranted. \n\n\nChapter  XI. \n\nOf  the  words  \"  Sursum  corda.\" \nHe  was  once  asked  what  was  the  subject  of \nhis  contemplation  when  he  sang  mass  and  in- \ntoned the  words  \"  Sursum  corda,\"  at  the  begin- \nning of  the  preface  before  the  Canon.  Now \nthese  words  mean  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  \"Lift \n\n\nSUESUM  CORDA.  39 \n\nup  all  hearts  on  high  to  God ;\"  and  they  came \nforth  from  his  mouth  with  such  an  expression \nof  ardent  desire,  that  it  may  well  have  moved  to \npeculiar  devotion  those  who  heard  them.  He \nanswered  this  question  with  a  deep  sigh,  say- \ning : — When  I  sing  these  adorable  words  in  the \nholy  mass,  it  usually  happens  that  my  heart  and \nsoul  are  melted  with  a  yearning  and  longing \nafter  God  which  carry  away  my  heart  out  of \nitself  at  that  moment ;  for  three  different  inten- \ntions commonly  present  themselves  to  me  then, \nand  lift  me  up  on  high — sometimes  one  alone, \nsometimes  two,  and  sometimes  all  three  together \n— and  they  bear  me  upwards  into  God,  and  with \nme  all  creatures. \n\nThe  first  intention,  that  darts  like  a  ray  of \nlight  into  my  mind,  is  this  : — I  place  before  my \ninward  eyes  myself  with  all  that  I  am — my  body, \nsoul,  and  all  my  powers — and  I  gather  round \nme  all  the  creatures  which  God  ever  created  in \nheaven,  on  earth,  and  in  all  the  elements,  each \none  severally  with  its  name,  whether  birds  of  the \nair,  beasts  of  the  forest,  fishes  of  the  water, \nleaves  and  grass  of  the  earth,  or  the  innumer- \nable sand  of  the  sea,  and  to  these  I  add  all  the \nlittle  specks  of  dust  which  glance  in  the  sun- \nbeams, with  all  the  little  drops  of  water  which \n\n\n40  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\never  fell  or  are  falling  from  dew,  snow,  or  rain, \nand  I  wish  that  each  of  these  had  a  sweetly- \nsounding  stringed  instrument,  fashioned  from \nmy  heart's  inmost  blood,  striking  on  which  they \nmight  each  send  up  to  our  dear  and  gentle  God  a \nnew  and  lofty  strain  of  praise  for  ever  and  ever. \nAnd  then  the  loving  arms  of  my  soul  stretch  out \nand  extend  themselves  towards  the  innumerable \nmultitude  of  all  creatures,  and  my  intention  is, \njust  as  a  free  and  blithesome  leader  of  a  choir \nstirs  up  the  singers  of  his  company,  even  so  to \nturn  them  all  to  good  account  by  inciting  them \nto  sing  joyously,  and  to  offer  up  their  hearts  to \nGod.     \"  Sursum  corda.\" \n\nHis  second  intention,  he  said,  was  this  : — I \nput  before  myself  in  thought  my  own  heart  and \nthe  hearts  of  all  men,  and  I  consider  on  the  one \nhand  what  joy  and  pleasure,  what  love  and \npeace  they  enjoy  who  give  their  hearts  to  God \nalone;  and,  on  the  other,  what  hurt  and  suf- \nfering, what  sorrow  and  unrest  perishable  love \nbrings  to  those  over  whom  it  rules ;  and  then \nI  cry  out  with  earnest  desire  to  my  own  heart, \nand  the  hearts  of  all  men,  wheresoever  they \nbe,  from  one  end  of  this  world  to  the  other : — \nCome  forth,  ye  captive  hearts,  from  the  strait \nbonds  of  perishable  love!    Come  forth,  ye  sleep- \n\n\nCANDLEMAS.  41 \n\ning  hearts,  from  the  death  of  sin !  Come  forth, \nye  frivolous  hearts,  from  the  lukewarmness  of \nyour  slothful  and  careless  lives !  Lift  yourselves \nup  by  turning  wholly  and  unreservedly  to  the \nliving  God.     \"  Sursum  corda.\" \n\nHis  third  intention  was  a  friendly  call  to \nall  well-disposed  but  undetached  men,  who  go \nastray  in  their  interior  life,  and  cling  closely \nneither  to  God  nor  to  creatures,  because  their \nhearts  are  distracted  and  drawn  to  one  side  or \nthe  other  at  every  moment.  These  men,  and \nmyself  among  their  number,  I  then  invite  to \nmake  a  bold  venture  of  ourselves,  by  turning \naway  entirely  from  ourselves  and  every  crea- \nture unto  God.  Such  was  the  subject  of  his \ncontemplation  in  the  words  \"  Sursum  corda.\" \n\n\nChapter  XII. \n\nHow  he  kept  the  feast  of  Candlemas. \n\nFor  three  days  before  our  Lady's  feast  of \nCandlemas,  he  used  to  get  ready  with  prayer  a \ncandle  for  the  heavenly  Mother ;  and  he  formed \nthe  candle  of  three  twisted  tapers  in  this  man- \nner : — The  first  taper  was  in  token  of  her  stain- \n\n\\ \n\n\n42  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nless  and  virginal  purity;  the  second,  of  her \nunfathomable  humility;  and  the  third,  of  her \nmaternal  dignity ; — three  prerogatives  which  are \nhers  alone  above  all  creatures.  And  he  made \nready  this  spiritual  candle  every  day  with  three \nmagnificats.  Now  when  the  day  of  the  blessing \nof  the  candles  was  come,  he  went  early  in  the \nmorning,  before  any  one  had  gone  into  the \nchurch,  to  the  high  altar,  and  waited  there  in \ncontemplation  the  coming  of  the  august  Mother \nwith  her  heavenly  treasure.  When  she  drew \nnigh  the  outer  gate  of  the  city,  he  ran  to  meet \nher  with  the  multitude  of  all  souls  that  love \nGod,  and  he  outran  them  all  with  the  longings \nof  his  heart.  Then  running  in  front  of  her  in \nthe  street,  he  prayed  her  to  tarry  a  while  with \nher  attendants  until  he  had  sung  something  in \nher  honour.  Thereupon,  with  a  spiritual  voice- \nless melody,  so  that  his  lips  moved,  but  no  one \nheard  him,  he  began  to  sing  as  lovingly  as  he \ncould  the  prose,  \"Inviolata,\"  &c.  (O  spotless \none,  &c),  and  he  bowed  himself  down  before \nher  as  he  sang,  \"  O  benigna,  O  benigna !\"  (O \ngracious  one !  O  gracious  one !)  and  he  prayed \nher  to  show  forth  her  gracious  kindliness  to- \nwards a  poor  sinner.  Then  rising  up,  he  fol- \nlowed her  with  his  spiritual  candle  in  the  desire \n\n\nCANDLEMAS.  43 \n\nthat  she  would  never  permit  the  burning  flame \nof  divine  light  to  be  extinguished  in  him.  After \nthis,  on  coming  up  to  the  multitude  of  all-loving \nsouls,  he  began  to  sing  \"  Adorna  thalamum,\"  &c. \n(Make  ready  the  bridal  bed,  &c),  and  he  called \nupon  them  to  receive  the  Saviour  with  love,  and \nf ervently  to  embrace  His  Mother ;  and  thus  he \nled  them  with  songs  of  praise  as  far  as  the \ntemple.  Then  drawing  near  to  the  Mother  be- \nfore she  entered  in  and  gave  the  Saviour  to \nSimeon,  he  knelt  down  in  front  of  her,  and  with \nuplifted  hands  and  eyes  prayed  her  to  show  him \nthe  Child,  and  to  suffer  him  also  to  kiss  It. \nWhen  she  kindly  offered  It  to  him,  he  spread \nout  his  arms  to  the  boundless  quarters  of  the \nwide  world,  and  received  and  embraced  the  Be- \nloved One  a  thousand  times  in  one  hour.  He \ncontemplated  Its  beautiful  little  eyes ;  he  looked \nupon  Its  little  hands ;  he  kissed  Its  tender  little \nmouth ;  and  he  gazed  again  and  again  at  all  the \ninfant  members  of  the  heavenly  treasure.  Then \nlifting  up  his  eyes,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  amaze- \nment in  his  heart  that  He  who  bears  up  the \nheavens  is  so  great  and  yet  so  small,  so  beauti- \nful in  heaven  and  so  childlike  upon  earth ;  and \nas  the  Divine  Infant  moved  him  so  did  he  act \ntowards  It, — now  singing,  now  weeping,  with \n\n\n44  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nother  spiritual  exercises,  until  at  last  he  gave  It \nback  to  Its  Mother,  and,  going  in  with  her  into \nthe  temple,  remained  there  till  all  was  fully \naccomplished. \n\n\nChapter  XIII. \n\nHow  he  spent  the  Carnival  time. \n\nWhen  the  Carnival  was  close  at  hand,  on \nthe  evening  that  the  Alleluias  are  left  off,*  and \nthe  foolish  people  of  this  world  begin  to  abandon \nthemselves  to  merriment,  he  set  about  keeping \nin  his  heart  a  heavenly  carnival,  in  this  wise : — \nIn  the  first  place  he  considered  how  short-lived \nand  hurtful  the  pleasure  of  this  earthly  carnival \nis,  and  how  some  persons  with  a  momentary  joy \npurchase  for  themselves  long  suffering;  and  then \nhe  said  a  \"Miserere\"  to  the  adorable  God  for \nall  the  sins  and  the  dishonour  which  would  be \noffered  to  Him  at  this  time  of  dissipation.  This \ncarnival  he  called  the  peasants'  carnival,  as  be- \nfitting those  who  knew  nothing  better.  His \nother  carnival  consisted  in  a  contemplation  of \n\n*  The  eve  of  Septuagesima  Sunday,  when  the  Alleluias \nare  left  off  in  the  divine  office.  They  are  not  resumed  until \nEaster. \n\n\nTHE  CARNIVAL  TIME.  45 \n\nthat  which  is  the  prelude  of  eternity;  namely, \nhow  God  makes  merry  with  His  chosen  friends, \nwhile  still  clothed  in  this  mortal  body,  through \nthe  heavenly  consolations  which  He  gives  them ; \nand  he  recounted  with  praises  and  thanksgiving \nthose  which  he  had  himself  received,  and  he  was \nfull  of  joy  in  the  Almighty  God. \n\nAt  this  same  season  of  his  beginnings,  God \nonce  gave  him  a  spiritual  carnival,  and  it  was  in \nthis  wise.  It  was  the  carnival  time,  and  he  had \ngone  before  compline  into  a  warm  little  room  to \nwarm  himself,  for  he  was  miserably  cold  and \nhungry,  and  yet  this  did  not  cause  him  so  much \npain  as  the  thirst  from  which  he  suffered.  Now \nwhen  he  saw  them  eating  meat  there  and  drink- \ning good  wine,  while  he  was  hungry  and  thirsty, \nhe  was  so  affected  by  it  interiorly  that  he  soon \nwent  out  again  and  began  to  lament  himself, \nand  to  sigh  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart. \nThat  same  night  it  seemed  to  him  in  a  vision \nthat  he  was  in  an  infirmary,  and  that  outside \nthe  room  he  heard  some  one  singing  a  heavenly \nsong,  and  the  tones  rang  so  sweetly  that  no \nearthly  harp  ever  sent  forth  the  like ;  and  it  was \nas  if  a  little  schoolboy  of  twelve  years  old  was \nsinging  there  alone.  The  Servitor  forgot  all \nabout  the  body's  food  as  he  listened  to  the  sweet \n\n\n46  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENKY  SUSO. \n\nmelody,  and  he  exclaimed  with  longing  heart : \n— Ah  me !  what  is  it  that  is  singing  there  ? \nNever  on  earth  heard  I  tones  so  sweet.  A \nnoble-looking  youth,  who  stood  by,  answered \nhim  and  said : — Thou  shouldst  know  that  this \nBoy  who  sings  so  well  is  singing  for  thee,  and \nthat  thou  art  the  object  of  His  song.  The  Ser- \nvitor replied : — Alas !  God  help  me !  Ah,  hea- \nvenly youth,  bid  Him  sing  more.  The  Boy  sang \nagain,  so  that  it  resounded  high  in  the  air,  and \nlie  sang  about  three  heavenly  canticles  from  the \nbeginning  to  the  end.  When  the  song  was \n«nded  it  seemed  as  though  the  same  Boy  who \nsang  so  sweetly  came  through  the  air  to  the \nlittle  window  of  the  room,  and  presented  the \nyouth  with  a  pretty  basket  filled  with  red  fruit, \nlike  ripe  red  strawberries,  and  they  were  large \nin  size.  The  youth  took  the  basket  from  the \nBoy,  and  offered  it  joyfully  to  the  brother,  say- \ning:— Look,  comrade  and  brother!  this  red \nfruit  is  sent  thee  by  thy  friend  and  heavenly \nLord,  the  delightful  Boy,  the  Son  of  the  hea- \nvenly Father,  who  has  been  singing  to  thee. \nAh,  how  very  dear  thou  art  to  Him !  At  this \nthe  brother's  face  became  all  on  fire  and  red \nwith  joy,  and  he  received  the  basket  longingly, \nsaying : — Ah,  it  is  well  with  me.    This  is  indeed \n\n\nTHE  CARNIVAL  TIME.  47 \n\na  lovely  gift  for  me  from  the  delightful  heavenly \nBoy.  My  heart  and  soul  shall  ever  rejoice  in \nthis.  Then  he  said  to  the  youth  and  the  other \nheavenly  beings  who  were  there: — Ah,  dear \nfriends,  is  it  not  meet  that  I  should  be  enamoured \nof  this  heavenly  Boy,  who  is  so  full  of  graces  ? \nYes,  verily,  it  is  meet  that  I  should  be  enamoured \nof  Him,  and  whatever  I  shall  know  to  be  His \ndearest  will  that  I  will  always  do.  Then  turning \nto  the  aforenamed  youth,  he  said: — Tell  me, \ndear  youth,  am  I  not  right !  The  youth  smiled \nsweetly,  and  said : — Yes,  thou  art  right.  It  is \nmeet  for  thee  to  be  enamoured  of  Him ;  for  He \nhas  regarded  and  honoured  thee  more  than \nmany  other  men.  Therefore  love  Him  very \ndearly;  and  I  tell  thee  thou  must  also  suffer \nmore  than  many  other  men.  Wherefore  make \nthyself  ready  for  it.  The  Servitor  answered : — \nAh,  this  I  will  do  right  gladly ;  but,  I  pray  thee, \nhelp  me  to  see  Him  and  to  thank  Him  for  His \nbeautiful  gift.  The  youth  replied: — Go  then \nto  the  little  window  and  look  out.  The  Servitor \nopened  the  window,  and  there  he  saw  standing \nbefore  the  window  the  tenderest  and  loveliest \nlittle  boy  that  eye  has  ever  seen ;  and  when  he \ntried  to  force  himself  through  the  window  to \nget  at  Him,  the  boy  turned  lovingly  towards \n\n\n48  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhim,  and  inclining  Himself  sweetly  to  him,  with \na  friendly  blessing,  vanished  from  his  sight. \nThus  the  vision  departed,  and  when  the  Servi- \ntor came  to  himself  again,  he  thanked  God  for \nthe  good  carnival  which  He  had  bestowed  upon \nhim. \n\n\nChapter  XIV. \n\nHow  he  began  the  month  of  May. \n\nIt  was  his  custom  on  May-day  Eve  to  set \nup  a  spiritual  May-bough,  and  to  do  it  honour \nevery  day  for  a  long  space  of  time.  Among  all \nthe  beautiful  branches  that  ever  grew  he  could \nfind  none  more  like  to  a  lovely  May-bough  than \nthe  delightful  bough  of  the  Holy  Cross,  which \nis  more  blooming  with  graces,  virtues,  and  orna- \nments of  every  kind  than  any  May-bough  that \never  was.  Under  this  May-bough  he  made  six \nprostrations  (venias),  and  at  each  prostration \nhe  desired  in  his  contemplation  to  adorn  the \nspiritual  May-bough  with  some  one  of  the  love- \nliest things  which  the  summer  might  bring \nforth;  and  he  sang  before  it  interiorly  the \nhymn,  u  Salve  crux  sancta,\"  &c,  in  this  wise ; \nHail,  heavenly  May-bough  of  the  Eternal  Wis- \n\n\nMAY-DAT.  49 \n\ndom,  on  which  has  grown  the  fruit  of  everlasting \nbliss !  First,  I  offer  thee  to-day  as  an  eternal \nadornment,  in  place  of  all  red  roses,  a  heartfelt \nlove;  secondly,  for  every  little  violet,  a  lowly \ninclination ;  thirdly,  for  all  tender  lilies,  a  pure \nembrace ;  fourthly,  instead  of  all  the  beautifully- \ncoloured  and  brilliant  flowers,  which  heath  or \ndown,  forest  or  plain,  tree  or  meadow  has \nbrought  forth  this  lovely  May,  or  which  have \never  been  or  will  be  brought  forth,  my  heart \noffers  thee  a  spiritual  kiss ;  fifthly,  for  the  songs \nof  all  the  blithesome  little  birds  which  ever  sang \nmerrily  on  any  a  May-day  flight,  my  soul  offers \nthee  praises  without  end;  sixthly,  for  every \nornament  with  which  a  May-bough  has  ever \nbeen  adorned  my  heart  magnifies  thee  to-day \nwith  a  spiritual  song ;  and  I  pray  thee,  blessed \nMay-bough,  to  help  me  so  to  praise  thee  in  this \nshort  time  of  life  that  I  may  feed  upon  thy \nliving  fruit  throughout  eternity.  Thus  it  was \nthat  he  began  the  month  of  May. \n\n\n50  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  XV. \n\nOf  the  sorrowful  way  of  the  Cross,  which  he  made  with \nChrist  when  He  was  being  led  forth  to  death. \n\nAt  first  for  a  long  time  the  Servitor  was, \nas  it  were,  spoiled  by  God  with  heavenly  con- \nsolations; and  he  was  so  eager  after  them, \nthat  all  subjects  of  contemplation  which  had \nreference  to  the  Divine  nature  were  a  delight \nto  him;  whereas,  when  he  should  have  medi- \ntated upon  our  Lord's  sufferings,  and  sought \nto  imitate  Him  in  them,  this  seemed  to  him  a \nthing  hard  and  bitter.  He  was  once  severely \nrebuked  by  God  for  this,  and  it  was  said  to \nhim: — Knowest  thou  not  that  I  am  the  door \nthrough  which  all  true  friends  of  God  must \npress  in,  if  they  would  attain  to  true  bliss? \nThou  must  break  thy  way  through  My  suffer- \ning Humanity,  if  thou  wouldst  verily  and  indeed \narrive  at  My  naked  Divinity.  The  Servitor \nwas  struck  with  consternation  at  this,  and  it \nwas  a  hard  saying  to  him ;  nevertheless  he  com- \nmenced meditating  upon  it,  much  though  it \nwent  against  him,  and  he  began  to  learn  what \ntill  then  he  knew  not,  and  he  gave  himself  up \nto  practise  it  with  detachment. \n\nHe  now  began  every  night  after  matins  at \n\n\nTHE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS.  51 \n\nhis  usual  place,  which  was  the  chapter-room,  to \nforce  himself  into  a  Christlike  feeling  of  sym- \npathy with  all  that  Christ,  his  Lord  and  God, \nhad  suffered  for  him.  He  stood  up  and  moved \nfrom  corner  to  corner,  in  order  that  all  sluggish- \nness might  leave  him,  and  that  he  might  have \nthroughout  a  lively  and  keen  sensitiveness  to \nour  Lord's  sufferings.  He  commenced  this  ex- \nercise with  the  Last  Supper,  and  he  accompa- \nnied Christ  from  place  to  place,  until  he  brought \nHim  before  Pilate.  Then  he  received  Him \nafter  He  had  been  sentenced  at  the  tribunal, \nand  he  followed  Him  along  the  sorrowful  way \nof  the  cross  from  the  court-house  to  beneath \nthe  gallows.  The  following  was  the  manner  in \nwhich  he  made  the  way  of  the  cross  : — On  com- \ning to  the  threshold  of  the  chapter-house,  he \nkneeled  down  and  kissed  the  print  of  the  first \nstep  which  the  Lord  took,  when,  on  being  sen- \ntenced, He  turned  Him  round  to  go  forth  to \ndeath.  Then  he  began  the  psalm  which  de- \nscribes our  Lord's  passion,  \"  Deus,  Deus  meus, \nrespice,\"  &c.  (Ps.  xxi.),  and  he  went  out  by  the \ndoor  into  the  cloister,  repeating  it.  Now  there \nwere  four  streets  through  which  he  accompanied \nHim.  He  went  with  Him  to  death  along  the \nfirst  street,  with  the  earnest  desire  and  will  to \n\n\n52  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ngo  forth  from  his   friends   and  all  perishable \ngoods,  and  to  suffer,  for  Christ's  glory,  misery \nwithout  consolation,  and  voluntary  poverty.    In \nthe  second  street  he  proposed  to  himself  to  cast \naside  all  perishable  honour  and  dignity,  and  vo- \nluntarily to  despise  this  present  world,  consider- \ning how  the  Lord  had  become  \"a  worm  and  the \noutcast  of  the  people.\"    At  the  beginning  of  the \nthird  street  he  kneeled  down  again,  and,  kissing \nthe   ground,  willingly   renounced   all   needless \ncomfort,  and  all  tender  treatment  of  his  body, \nin  honour  of  the  pains  of  Christ's  tender  body : \nand  he  set  before  his  eyes,  what  is  written  in \nthe  psalm,  how  that  all   Christ's  strength  was \ndried  up,  and  His  natural  vigour  brought  nigh \nto  death,  as  they  drove  Him  onwards  thus  piti- \nably;   and  he  thought   how   fitting  it  is  that \nevery  eye  should  weep  and  every  heart  sigh  on \naccount  of  it.     When  he  came  to  the  fourth \nstreet,  he  kneeled  down  in  the  middle  of  the \nroad,  as  if  he  were  kneeling  in  front  of  the \ngate  through  which  the  Lord  must  pass  out; \nand  then  falling  on  his  face  before  Him,  he \nkissed  the  ground,  and  crying  out  to  Him,  prayed \nHim  not  to  go  to  death  without  His  servant, \nbut  to  suffer  him  to  go  along  with  Him.     Then \nhe  pictured  to  himself  as  vividly  as  he  could \n\n\nTHE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS.  53 \n\nthat  the  Lord  was  obliged  to  pass  quite  close  to \nhim,  and  when  he  had  said  the  prayer,  \"Ave, \nrex  noster,  fili  David !\"  (Hail,  our  King,  son  of \nDavid !),  he  let  Him  move  onwards.  After  this \nhe  knelt  down  again,  still  turned  towards  the \ngate,  and  greeted  the  cross  with  the  verse,  \"  O \ncrux  ave,  spes  unica !\"  (Hail,  O  cross,  our  only \nhope!),  and  then  let  it  go  past.  This  done, \nhe  kneeled  down  once  more  before  the  tender \nMother  Mary,  heaven's  queen,  as  she  was  led \npast  him  in  unfathomable  anguish  of  heart,  and \nhe  observed  how  mournfully  she  bore  herself, \nand  noted  her  burning  tears,  sad  sighings,  and \nsorrowful  demeanour ;  and  he  addressed  her \nin  the  words  of  the  \"  Salve  Regina\"  (Hail,  O \nQueen !),  and  kissed  her  footsteps.  Then  he \nstood  up  and  hastened  after  his  Lord,  until  he \ncame  up  with  Him.  And  the  picture  was  some- \ntimes so  vividly  present  to  his  mind,  that  it \nseemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  in  body  walking  at \nChrist's  side,  and  the  thought  would  come  to  him, \nhow  that  when  King  David  was  driven  from  his \nkingdom  his  bravest  captains  walked  around  him \nand  beside  him,  and  gave  him  loving  succour  (2 \nKings  xv.).  At  this  point  he  gave  up  his  will \nto  God's  will,  desiring  that  God  would  do  with \nhim  according  to  His  good  pleasure.     Last  of \n\n\n54  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nall,  he  called  to  mind  the  epistle,  which  is  read \nin  Holy  Week,  from  the  prophecy  of  Isaias, \nbeginning,  \"Quis  credidit  auditui  nostro\"  (Is. \nliii.),  and  which  so  exactly  describes  how  the \nLord  was  led  forth  to  death,  and  meditating \nupon  it,  he  went  in  by  the  door  of  the  choir, \nand  so  up  the  steps  into  the  pulpit,  until  he \ncame  beneath  the  cross,  and  then  he  besought \nthe  Lord  that  neither  life  nor  death,  weal  nor \nwoe,  might  separate  his  servant  from  Him. \n\nThere  was  another  mournful  way  of  the \ncross  that  he  used  to  make,  and  it  was  in  this \nwise: — While  the  \"Salve  Regina\"  was  being \nsung  at  compline,  he  contemplated  in  his  heart \nthe  pure  Mother  as  at  that  moment  still  stand- \ning beside  her  dear  Child's  grave,  with  all  a \nmother's  grief  for  her  buried  child,  and  that  it \nwas  time  for  her  to  be  led  home  again,  and  that \nhe  was  to  lead  her  home.  Accordingly,  he  made \nthree  prostrations  (yenias)  in  his  heart,  and  with \nthem  he  led  her  home  again  in  his  contempla- \ntion. The  first  was  at  the  sepulchre.  As  soon \nas  the  u  Salve  Regina\"  began,  he  bowed  down \nhis  soul  before  her,  and  supporting  her  in  spiri- \ntual fashion  with  his  arms,  bewailed  her  tender \nheart,  which  was  at  that  time  so  full  of  bitter- \nness, outrage,  and  deadly  sorrow,  and  he  sought \n\n\nTHE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS.  55 \n\nto  comfort  her  by  reminding  her  that  on  account \nof  all  this  she  was  now  a  queen  in  dignity,  our \nhope  and  our  sweetness,  as  it  stands  in  the  hymn. \nThen,  when  he  had  brought  her  under  the  gate- \nway into  Jerusalem,  he  went  on  before  her  into \nthe  street,  and  looking  back  upon  her,  as  she \ncame  along  in  wretchedness,  all  blood-stained \nwith  the  hot  blood  which  had  dropped  upon  her, \nas  it  streamed  forth  from  the  bursting  wounds \nof  her  pierced  Son,  he  marked  how  forsaken  she \nwas  and  bereaved  of  all  her  consolation.  Then \nhe  received  her  again  with  a  second  interior \nprostration,  at  the  words,  \"Eia  ergo  advocata \nnostra!\"  (Hail  then,  our  advocate!),  meaning \nby  them  that  she  should  be  of  good  cheer,  since \nshe  is  the  worthy  advocate  of  us  all ;  and  he \nbesought  her  with  that  love  which  shone  forth \namid  her  anguish  to  turn  to  him  her  merciful \neyes,  and  to  grant  him,  when  this  miserable  life \nis  over,  lovingly  to  behold  her  august  Son,  ac- \ncording to  the  wish  expressed  in  the  prayer. \nHe  made  the  third  interior  prostration  before \nthe  door  of  her  mother  St.  Anne's  house,  whi- \nther he  had  led  her  in  her  sorrows,  and,  as  he \ndid  this,  he  commended  himself  to  her  gentle- \nness and  loving  sweetness,  in  the  devout  words, \n\"O  clemens,  O  pia,  O  dulcis  Virgo  Maria!\" \n\n\n56  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n(O  gentle,  O  pious,  O  sweet  Virgin  Mary!), \nand  he  prayed  her  to  receive  his  wretched  soul \nat  its  last  passage,  and  to  be  its  guide  and  de- \nfender from  its  evil  enemies,  through  the  gates \nof  heaven  to  everlasting  bliss. \n\n\nChapter  XVI. \n\nOf  the  useful  virtue  called  silence. \nThe  Servitor  had  an  interior  drawing  to \nstrive  after  true  peace  of  heart,  and  it  seemed \nto  him  that  silence  would  be  of  service  towards \nattaining  it.  He  therefore  kept  so  strict  a  guard \nover  his  mouth,  that  for  thirty  years  he  never \nbroke  silence  at  table,  except  once,  when  he  was \nreturning  from  a  chapter  with  many  other  bro- \nthers, and  they  ate  on  board  ship.  On  that  oc- \ncasion he  broke  it.  In  order  to  have  greater \nmastery  over  his  tongue,  and  to  stop  himself \nfrom  giving  way  too  readily  to  talk,  he  made \nchoice  in  his  mind  of  three  masters,  without \nwhose  special  leave  he  resolved  never  to  speak, \nand  these  were  the  holy  patriarchs  St.  Dominic, \nSt.  Arsenius,  and  St.  Bernard.  Whenever  he \nwished  to  speak  he  went  in  thought  from  one \nto  the  other,  and  asked  leave,  saying,  \"Jube, \n\n\nBODILY  MORTIFICATIONS.  57 \n\ndomne,  benedicere\"  (Bid  me,  O  master,  speak) ; \nand  if  it  was  the  right  time  and  place  to  speak, \nhe  received  permission  from  the  first  master; \nand  if  there  was  no  external  reason  to  prevent \nhim  speaking,  he  had  leave  from  the  second ; \nand  if  it  was  not  likely  to  do  him  an  injury  in- \nteriorly, he  considered  that  he  had  leave  from \nall  three;  and  after  that  he  spoke;  but  if  it \nwas  not  so,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  ought  to \nkeep  silence.  Whenever  he  was  called  to  the \ndoor  of  the  convent  he  applied  himself  to  these \nfour  things:  first,  to  receive  every  one  with \nkindliness;  secondly,  to  despatch  the  matter \nwith  brevity ;  thirdly,  to  send  the  person  away \nconsoled ;  fourthly,  to  go  back  again  free  from \nattachment. \n\n\nChapter  XVH. \n\nOf  the  chastisement  of  his  body. \nHe  was  in  his  youth  of  a  temperament  full \nof  fire  and  life ;  and  when  this  began  to  make \nitself  felt,  and  he  perceived  what  a  heavy  burden \nhe  had  in  himself,  it  was  very  bitter  and  grievous \nto  him ;  and  he  sought,  by  many  devices  and \ngreat  penances,  how  he  might  bring  his  body \n\n\n58  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ninto  subjection  to  his  spirit.  He  wore  for  a \nlong  time  a  hair  shirt  and  an  iron  chain,  until \nthe  blood  ran  from  him ;  so  that  he  was  obliged \nto  leave  them  off.  He  secretly  caused  an  under- \ngarment to  be  made  for  him  ;  and  in  the  under- \ngarment he  had  strips  of  leather  fixed,  into  which \na  hundred  and  fifty  brass  nails,  pointed  and \nfiled  sharp,  were  driven,  and  the  points  of  the \nnails  were  always  turned  towards  the  flesh.  He \nhad  this  garment  made  very  tight,  and  so  ar- \nranged as  to  go  round  him  and  fasten  in  front, \nin  order  that  it  might  fit  the  closer  to  his  body, \nand  the  pointed  nails  might  be  driven  into  his \nflesh ;  and  it  was  high  enough  to  reach  upwards \nto  his  navel.  In  this  he  used  to  sleep  at  night. \nNow  in  summer,  when  it  was  hot,  and  he  was \nvery  tired  and  ill  from  his  journeyings,  or  when \nhe  held  the  office  of  lecturer,  he  would  some- \ntimes, as  he  lay  thus  in  bonds,  and  oppressed \nwith  toil,  and  tormented  also  by  noxious  insects, \ncry  aloud,  and  give  way  to  fretfulness,  and  twist \nround  and  round  in  agony,  as  a  worm  does \nwhen  run  through  with  a  pointed  needle.  It \noften  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  lying  upon \nan  ant-hill  from  the  torture  caused  by  the  in- \nsects ;  for  if  he  wished  to  sleep,  or  when  he  had \nfallen  asleep,  they  vied  with  each  other  in  biting \n\n\nBODILY  MORTIFICATIONS.  59 \n\nand  sucking  him.  Sometimes  he  would  cry  to \nAlmighty  God  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart : — \nAlas !  gentle  God,  what  a  dying  is  this !  When \na  man  is  killed  by  murderers  or  strong  beasts \nof  prey,  it  is  soon  over ;  but  I  lie  dying  here \nunder  the  cruel  insects,  and  yet  cannot  die.  The \nnights  in  winter  were  never  so  long,  nor  was \nthe  summer  so  hot,  as  to  make  him  leave  off  this \nexercise.  On  the  contrary,  in  order  that  he \nmight  get  still  less  rest  amid  these  torments,  he \ndevised  something  further.  He  bound  a  part \nof  his  girdle  round  his  throat,  and  made  out  of \nit  with  skill  two  leather  loops,  into  which  he  put \nhis  hands,  and  then  locked  his  arms  into  them \nwith  two  padlocks,  and  placed  the  keys  on  a \nplank  beside  his  bed,  where  they  remained  until \nhe  rose  for  matins  and  unlocked  himself.  His \narms  were  thus  stretched  upwards,  and  fastened \none  on  each  side  his  throat,  and  he  made  the \nfastenings  so  secure,  that  even  if  his  cell  had \nbeen  on  fire  about  him  he  could  not  have  helped \nhimself.  This  practice  he  continued  until  his \nhands  and  arms  had  become  almost  tremulous \nwith  the  strain,  and  then  he  devised  something \nelse. \n\nHe  had  two  leather  gloves  made  for  him, \nsuch  as  labourers  usually  wear  when  they  gather \n\n\n60  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nbriers,  and  he  caused  a  brazier  to  fit  them  all \nover  with  sharp-pointed  brass  tacks,  and  he  used \nto  put  them  on  at  night.  This  he  did  in  order \nthat,  if  he  should  try  while  asleep  to  throw  off \nthe  hair  under-garment,  or  endeavour  in  any \nother  way  to  relieve  himself  from  the  gnawings \nof  the  vile  and  hateful  insects,  the  tacks  might \nthen  stick  into  his  body.  And  so  it  came  to \npass.  If  ever  he  sought  to  help  himself  with \nhis  hands  in  sleep,  he  drove  the  sharp  tacks  into \nhis  breast,  and  tore  himself,  making  horrible \nrents,  as  if  a  bear  had  torn  him  with  its  sharp \nclaws,  so  that  his  flesh  festered  at  the  arms  and \nabout  the  heart.  When  after  many  weeks  the \nwounds  had  healed,  he  tore  himself  again  and \nmade  fresh  wounds.  He  continued  this  tor- \nmenting exercise  for  about  sixteen  years.  At \nthe  end  of  this  time,  when  his  blood  was  now \nchilled,  and  the  fire  of  his  temperament  de- \nstroyed, there  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  on \nWhit -Sunday  a  messenger  from  heaven,  who \ntold  him  that  God  required  this  of  him  no  longer. \nWhereupon  he  discontinued  it,  and  threw  all \nthese  things  away  into  a  running  stream. \n\n\nTHE  SHARP  CEOSS  UPON  HIS  BACK.  61 \n\n\nChapter  XVIIL \n\nOf  the  sharp  cross  which  he  bore  upon  his  back. \n\nAbove  all  his  other  exercises,  he  had  a  long- \ning desire  to  bear  upon  his  body  something \nwhich  might  betoken  a  sensible  sympathy  with \nthe  painful  sufferings  of  his  crucified  Lord.  To \nthis  end  he  made  for  himself  a  wooden  cross,  in \nlength  about  a  man's  span,  and  of  corresponding \nbreadth,  and  he  drove  into  it  thirty  iron  nails, \nintending  to  represent  by  them  all  his  Lord's \nwounds  and  love-tokens.  He  placed  this  cross \nupon  his  bare  back  between  his  shoulders  on \nthe  flesh,  and  he  bore  it  continually  day  and \nnight  in  honour  of  his  crucified  Lord.  After- \nwards, in  the  last  year,  he  drove  into  it  besides \nseven  needles,  so  that  their  points  passed  a  long \nway  through  the  cross,  and  remained  sticking \nin  it,  while  the  other  ends  were  broken  off  close \nto  the  wood.  He  bore  the  wounds  made  by \nthese  pointed  needles  in  honour  of  the  piercing \nanguish  of  God's  pure  Mother,  by  which  her \nheart  and  soul  were  wounded  through  and \nthrough  so  utterly  at  the  hour  of  her  Son's \nagonising  death.  The  first  time  that  he  stretched \nout  this  cross  upon  his  back  his  tender  frame \n\n\n62  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HEKEtY  SUSO. \n\nwas  struck  with  terror  at  it,  and  he  blunted  the \nsharp  nails  very  slightly  upon  a  stone.  But  very- \nsoon  repenting  of  this  unmanly  cowardice,  he \npointed  and  sharpened  them  all  again  with  a \nfile,  and  placed  the  cross  once  more  upon  him. \nIt  furrowed  his  back,  where  the  bones  are,  and \nmade  it  bloody  and  seared.  Whenever  he  sat \ndown  or  stood  up,  it  was  as  if  a  hedgehog-skin \nlay  upon  him.  If  any  one  touched  him  un- \nawares, or  pushed  against  his  clothes,  it  tore \nhim.  To  make  this  painful  cross  more  bear- \nable, he  chiselled  on  the  back  of  it  the  saving \nName  of  Jesus.  For  a  long  time  he  took  two \ndisciplines  every  day  with  this  cross,  in  the  fol- \nlowing manner.  He  struck  behind  him  with \nhis  fist  upon  the  cross,  and  thus  drove  the  nails \ninto  his  flesh,  and  made  them  stick  in  it,  so  that \nhe  had  to  take  off  his  clothes  to  get  them  out \nagain.  He  used  to  strike  these  blows  upon  the \ncross  so  secretly  that  no  one  could  have  observed \nit.  He  took  the  first  discipline  on  arriving  in \nhis  contemplation  at  the  pillar  where  our  beau- \ntiful Lord  was  so  barbarously  scourged,  and  he \nprayed  our  Lord  to  heal  His  servant's  wounds \nwith  His  own.  He  took  the  second  discipline \nwhen  he  had  come  in  contemplation  beneath \nthe  cross,  and  the  Lord  had  been  nailed  to  it, \n\n\nTHE  SHARP  CROSS  UPON  HIS  BACK.  63 \n\nand  then  he  nailed  himself  to  his  Lord,  never \nmore  to  part  from  Him.  He  did  not  take  the \nthird  discipline  every  day,  but  only  when  he \nhad  been  too  indulgent  with  himself,  or  had \ngiven  way  to  inordinate  pleasure  in  eating  and \ndrinking,  or  such  like. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  he  had  been  so  much  off \nhis  guard  as  to  take  into  his  hands  the  hands  of \ntwo  maidens,  who  were  sitting  beside  him  in  a \npublic  assembly,  though  without  any  bad  inten- \ntion. He  soon  repented  of  this  unguardedness, \nand  he  considered  that  this  inordinate  pleasure \nmust  be  atoned  for  by  penance.  As  soon  as  he \nleft  the  maidens,  and  had  come  into  his  chapel \nto  his  place  of  privacy,  he  struck  himself  upon \nthe  cross  for  this  misdeed,  so  that  the  pointed \nnails  stuck  into  his  back.  He  moreover  laid \nhimself  under  an  interdict  for  this  fault,  and \nwould  not  allow  himself  to  go  after  matins  into \nthe  chapter-room,  his  usual  place  of  prayer,  to \nmeet  the  heavenly  spirits,  who  were  wont  to \nappear  to  him  there  during  his  contemplation. \nAt  length,  desiring  to  atone  completely  for  the \nmisdeed,  he  summoned  courage,  and  fell  at  the \nJudge's  feet,  and  took  a  discipline  in  His  pre- \nsence with  the  cross ;  and  then  going  round  and \nround  on  every  side  before  the  saints,  he  took \n\n\n64  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthirty  disciplines,  till  the  blood  ran  down  his \nback.  In  this  way  he  atoned  very  bitterly  for \nthe  inordinate  pleasure  which  he  had  allowed \nhimself. \n\nAfter  matins  had  been  sung,  he  went  into \nthe  chapter-room,  to  his  place  of  privacy,  and \nkissed  the  ground  a  hundred  times  prostrate \nwith  outstretched  arms,  and  a  hundred  times \nkneeling;  each  time  with  a  special  object  of \ncontemplation.  This  caused  him  very  great \npain  on  account  of  the  cross.  For  as  it  was \nfastened  tightly  upon  him,  and  driven  closer  to \nhis  body  than  a  hoop  is  to  a  cask — such  being \nhis  custom  at  this  period — each  time  that  he \nflung  himself  on  the  ground  in  making  the \nhundred  prostrations  the  nails  stuck  into  him \nthrough  the  fall.  When  he  got  up  again  he \nwrithed  them  out  of  him.  But  at  the  next  fall \nthey  stuck  into  fresh  holes,  and  this  was  a  sore \npain  to  him.  If,  however,  they  stuck  into  the \nsame  holes  it  was  endurable. \n\nThere  was  another  penitential  exercise  which \nhe  had  previously  practised.  It  was  this :  He \nmade  for  himself  a  scourge  out  of  a  leather \nthong,  and  had  it  fitted  with  pointed  brass  tacks \nas  sharp  as  a  style,  in  such  a  way  that  the  ends \nof  each  tack  stood  out  on  either  side  of  the  thong, \n\n\nHIS  SCOURGE.  65 \n\nand  each  of  the  ends  had  a  triple  point,  which \ncaused  wounds  in  whatever  part  of  the  body \nthey  struck.  Such  was  the  kind  of  scourge \nwhich  he  made  for  himself ;  and  he  used  to  get \nup  before  matins,  and  go  into  the  choir  in  front \nof  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and  there  discipline \nhimself  with  it  severely.  He  practised  this \npenance  for  a  long  time,  until  at  last  the  bro- \nthers became  aware  of  it,  upon  which  he  dis- \ncontinued it. \n\nOnce,  on  St.  Clement's  day,  at  the  beginning \nof  winter,  he  made  a  general  confession,  and \nthat  same  evening,  when  it  became  dusk,  he \nshut  himself  up  in  his  cell,  and  stripping  him- \nself naked  to  his  horsehair  under-garment,  he \ntook  out  the  scourge  with  the  pointed  tacks,  and \nstruck  himself  with  it  over  the  body  and  about \nthe  arms,  till  the  blood  ran  down  just  as  when \none  is  cupped.  The  chief  cause  of  this  was  a \nbent  tack  on  the  scourge,  in  shape  like  a  little \nhook,  which  tore  away  all  the  flesh  on  which  it \ncaught.  He  struck  himself  so  hard,  that  the \nscourge  broke  into  three  pieces,  and  while  one \nlittle  piece  remained  in  his  hand,  the  rest  with \nthe  points  flew  against  the  walls.  As  he  stood \nthere  all  covered  with  blood,  and  looked  at  him- \nself, the  spectacle  which  he  presented  was  a \n\n\n66  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmost  miserable  one,  and  lie  resembled  in  some \ndegree  Christ,  our  Lord,  when  He  was  bar- \nbarously scourged.  Thereupon,  being  moved \nto  pity  for  himself,  he  began  to  weep  from  liis \nvery  heart,  and  kneeling  down  all  naked  and \nbleeding  in  the  frosty  cold,  he  besought  God  so \nto  blot  out  all  his  sins  that  His  merciful  eyes \nmight  no  more  behold  them. \n\nAnother  time,  on  Quinquagesima  Sunday,  he \nwent,  as  he  had  done  before,  into  his  cell,  when \nthe  brothers  were  at  table;  and  after  having \nstripped  himself  naked,  he  gave  himself  very \ncruel  blows,  so  that  the  blood  streamed  down \nhis  body.  But  just  as  he  was  about  to  strike \nhimself  still  harder,  there  came  thither  a  bro- \nther, who  had  heard  the  noise,  so  that  he  was \nobliged  to  leave  off.  Then  he  took  vinegar  and \nsalt,  and  rubbed  them  into  his  wounds,  that  \"the \npain  might  be  rendered  greater. \n\nOn  St.  Benedict's  feast,  the  day  on  which \nhe  was  born  into  this  miserable  world,  he  went  at \nbreakfast-time  into  his  chapel,  and  making  fast \nthe  door,  stripped  himself  as  before,  and  taking \nout  the  scourge,  began  to  strike  himself  with  it. \nA  blow  fell  on  his  left  arm,  and  hit  the  vein \ncalled  mediana,  or  another  vein  near  it.  And \nas  the  stroke  was  a  very  severe  one,  the  blood \n\n\nHIS  SCOURGE.  67 \n\nburst  forth,  and  ran  down  in  a  stream  upon  his \nfoot  between  the  toes,  and  lay  in  a  pool  upon \nthe  pavement.  His  arm  immediately  swelled \nup  to  a  great  size,  and  turned  blue ;  and  this  so \nfrightened  him,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  go  on \nstriking.  Now  at  this  very  time,  and  at  the \nselfsame  hour  in  which  he  thus  struck  himself, \nthere  was  at  another  place  in  a  certain  castle  a \nholy  maiden,  named  Anna,  praying,  who  seemed \nto  herself  to  be  carried  in  a  vision  to  the  spot \nwhere  he  was  taking  the  discipline.  And  when \nshe  saw  the  hard  blows  which  he  was  giving \nhimself,  it  so  moved  her  to  compassion  that, \ngoing  up  to  him  just  as  he  had  raised  his  arm, \nand  was  on  the  point  of  striking,  she  intercepted \nthe  blow,  and  received  it  on  her  own  arm,  as  it \nseemed  to  her  in  the  vision.  When  she  came \nto  herself  again,  she  found  the  mark  of  the  blow \non  her  arm  in  black  wales,  as  if  she  had  been \nhit  by  a  scourge.  These  marks  remained  visible \nupon  her  for  a  long  time,  and  they  were  accom- \npanied with  great  pain. \n\n\n68  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nChapter  XIX. \n\nOf  his  bed. \n\nAt  this  same  period  the  Servitor  procured \nan  old  castaway  door,  which  he  placed  upon  his \nbedstead  in  his  cell,  and  he  used  to  lie  upon  it \nat  night  without  any  bed-clothes  to  make  him \ncomfortable.  He  also  made  for  himself  a  very \nthin  mat  of  rushes,  which  he  laid  upon  the  door, \nand  which  reached  only  to  his  knees.  He  put \nunder  his  head  for  a  bolster  a  small  sack  filled \nwith  pea-stalks,  and  upon  it  a  very  small  pillow. \nHe  had  no  bed-covering  over  him,  and  he  lay  at \nnight  just  as  he  was  clothed  during  the  day;  ex- \ncept only  that  he  took  off  his  shoes,  and  wrapped \na  thick  cloak  round  him.  He  thus  secured  for \nhimself  a  most  miserable  bed ;  for  the  hard  pea- \nstalks  lay  in  lumps  under  his  head,  the  cross \nwith  the  sharp  nails  stuck  into  his  back,  his \narms  were  locked  fast  in  bonds,  the  horsehair \nunder-garment  was  round  his  loins,  and  the \ncloak  too  was  very  heavy,  and  the  door  hard. \nThus  he  lay  in  wretchedness,  afraid  to  stir,  just \nlike  a  log.  Whenever  he  attempted  to  turn, \nthe  pain  it  caused  him  was  very  great ;  and  if \nhe  fell  back  at  all  heavily  upon  the  cross  when \n\n\nHIS  BED.  69 \n\nasleep,  the  nails  ran  into  his  bones ;  and  he \nwould  then  send  up  many  a  sigh  to  God. \n\nIn  winter  he  suffered  very  much  from  the \nfrost,  for  if  he  stretched  out  his  feet  in  sleep,  as \npeople  do,  they  lay  quite  bare  upon  the  door, \nand  froze  with  the  cold ;  and  if  he  drew  them \nin  again,  and  kept  them  gathered  up,  the  blood \nbecame  all  on  fire  in  his  legs,  and  this  was  great \npain  to  him.  His  feet  were  full  of  sores ;  his \nlegs  swelled,  as  if  they  were  growing  dropsical; \nhis  knees  were  bloody  and  seared ;  his  loins  were \ncovered  with  scars  from  the  horsehair  under- \ngarment ;  his  back  was  wounded  by  the  cross  ; \nhis  body  wasted  from  excessive  austerity;  his \nmouth  parched  with  intense  thirst;  and  his \nhands  tremulous  from  weakness.  Amid  these \ntorments  he  spent  his  days  and  nights ;  and  he \nendured  them  all  out  of  the  greatness  of  the \nlove  which  he  bore  in  his  heart  to  the  Divine \nand  Eternal  Wisdom,  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, \nwhose  agonising  sufferings  he  sought  to  imitate. \n\nAfter  a  time  he  gave  up  this  penitential  ex- \nercise of  the  door,  and  instead  of  it  he  took  up \nhis  abode  in  a  very  small  cell,  and  used  the \nbench,  which  was  intended  for  a  seat,  as  his  bed. \nThis  bench  was  so  narrow  and  short  that  he  could \nnot  stretch  himself  out  upon  it.     In  this  hole, \n\n\n70  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  upon  the  above-mentioned  door,  he  lay  at \nnight,  in  his  usual  bonds,  for  about  eight  years. \nIt  was  also  his  custom  during  the  space  of  five- \nand-twenty  years,  provided  he  was  staying  in \nthe  convent,  never  to  go  after  compline  in \nwinter  into  any  warm  room,  or  to  the  convent- \nstove  to  warm  himself,  however  cold  it  might  be, \nunless  he  was  obliged  to  do  so  for  other  reasons. \nThroughout  all  these  years  he  never  took  a  bath, \neither  a  water  or  a  sweating  bath ;  and  this  he \ndid  in  order  to  mortify  his  comfort -seeking \nbody. \n\nFor  a  long  time  he  only  ate  once  a  day, \nboth  in  summer  and  winter ;  and  he  not  only \nfasted  from  meat,  but  also  from  fish  and  eggs. \nHe  practised  during  a  long  time  such  rigid  po- \nverty that  he  would  neither  receive  nor  touch  a \npenny  either  with  leave  or  without  it.  For  a \nconsiderable  space  of  time  he  strove  to  attain  to \nsuch  a  high  degree  of  purity  that  he  would \nneither  scratch  nor  touch  any  part  of  his  body, \nsave  only  his  hands  and  feet. \n\n\nHIS  ABSTINENCE  FROM  DRINK.  71 \n\nChapter  XX. \n\nHow  he  broke  himself  from  drink. \n\nAnother  afflictive  exercise,  which  he  once \nadopted,  was  to  limit  himself  to  an  exceedingly \nsmall  measure  of  drink ;  and  that  he  might  not \ntransgress  this  measure  either  at  home  or  abroad, \nhe  caused  a  little  cup  to  be  made  of  the  exact \nsize,  and  carried  it  with  him  whenever  he  went \nout.  In  times  of  great  thirst  it  was  no  more \nthan  enough  to  cool  his  parched  mouth,  just \nlike  what  is  given  to  refresh  a  sick  person  in  a \nburning  fever.  For  a  long  time  he  drank  no \nwine  at  all,  save  only  on  holy  Easter-day,  and \nhe  drank  it  then  in  honour  of  the  high  festival. \nOn  one  occasion,  after  he  had  long  endured \ngreat  thirst,  and  from  a  spirit  of  mortification  was \nresolved  not  to  quench  his  thirst  with  water  or \nwine,  he  looked  upwards  to  God  in  the  excessive \nanguish  of  his  soul,  upon  which  God  answered \nhim  interiorly  in  this  wise  : — Mark  and  see  how \nthirsty  I  was  in  My  death-agony,  with  nothing \nbut  a  little  vinegar  and  gall  to  drink;  and  yet \nall  the  cool  fountains  upon  this  earth  were \nMine,  for  I  have  created  them  all,  as  well  as \nall  things  else,  and  ordained  them  all  for  man's \nsupport.      Wherefore   thou   also   must   endure \n\n\n72  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\npatiently  privation  and  want,  if  thou  wouldst \nimitate  Me. \n\nIt  happened  once  before  Christmas  that  the \nServitor  had  utterly  renounced  and  put  from \nhim  all  bodily  comforts,  and  moreover  had \ntaken  upon  himself  three  penitential  exercises \nin  addition  to  the  ordinary  practices  which  he \nhad  long  pursued.  The  first  of  these  was,  that \nhe  remained  after  matins  until  daybreak  stand- \ning on  the  bare  stones  before  the  high  altar, \nand  this  too  at  a  time  when  the  nights  were  at \nthe  longest,  and  the  bell  for  matins  rang  very \nearly.  The  second  practice  was,  that  he  avoided \ngoing  to  any  warm  place,  either  by  day  or  night, \nand  never  warmed  his  hands  over  the  chafing- \ndish  at  the  altar  ;*  in  consequence  of  which  his \nhands  became  horribly  swollen,  because  the \ncold  at  that  time  was  exceeding  great.  When \ncompline  was  ended,  he  used  to  go,  all  cold  as \nhe  was,  to  sleep  upon  his  bench,  and  after \nmatins  he  stood  before  the  altar  on  the  bare \nstones  till  daybreak.  The  third  practice  was \nto  abstain  altogether  from  drinking  during  the \nday,  however  great  his  thirst  might  be.     He \n\n*  It  was  the  custom  to  place  a  chafing-dish  upon  the \naltar  when  the  cold  was  very  great,  in  order  that  the  priest \nmight  warm  his  fingers  at  it. \n\n\nHIS  ABSTINENCE  FROM  DRINK.  73 \n\nonly  drank  in  the  morning  at  table,  and  at  that \ntime  he  was  not  thirsty.  When,  however,  it \ndrew  towards  evening,  his  thirst  became  so  ex- \ncessive that  his  whole  frame  panted  for  drink ; \nnevertheless  he  bore  it  all  perseveringly,  though \nthe  pain  of  it  was  bitter  and  intense.  His \nmouth,  inside  and  out,  was  as  dry  as  that  of  a \nsick  person  in  a  distemper,  and  his  tongue  was \nso  cracked  that  for  more  than  a  year  afterwards \nit  would  not  heal.  When  he  stood  in  choir  at \ncompline  thus  parched  with  thirst,  and  the  holy \nwater  was  sprinkled  around  according  to  cus- \ntom, he  would  eagerly  open  his  parched  mouth, \nand  gape  wide  towards  the  sprinkling-brush,  in \nthe  hope  that  a  little  drop  of  water  might  fall \nupon  his  dried-up  tongue  and  cool  it  a  little. \nAgain,  when  he  used  to  push  away  the  wine \nfrom  him  at  the  supper-table,  all  athirst  though \nhe  was,  he  would  sometimes  lift  up  his  eyes  and \nsay: — Ah,  heavenly  Father,  receive  this  cool \ndrink  as  an  offering  of  my  heart's  blood,  and \ngive  Thy  Child  to  drink  of  it  in  that  thirst \nwherewith  He  thirsted  in  His  death-agony  upon \nthe  cross.  Sometimes  also,  when  he  was  very \nthirsty,  he  would  go  opposite  the  fountain  and \ngaze  at  the  tinkling  water  in  the  tinned  basin, \nand  then  he  would  look  upwards  to  God  and \n\n\n74  LIFE  QP  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nsigh  deeply.  At  other  times  he  was  so  utterly \novercome  by  his  sufferings  that  he  would  cry \nout  from  the  depths  of  his  heart : — Alas,  O \neverlasting  Good,  how  hidden  are  Thy  judg- \nments !  Ah  me !  that  the  broad  lake  of  Con- \nstance is  so  nigh,  and  the  clear  Rhine  flows  all \naround  me,*  and  yet  one  single  drink  of  water \nis  too  dear  for  me  to  purchase !  This  is  indeed \na  misery. \n\nThis  state  of  things  continued  until  the \ntime  when  the  Gospel  was  read  at  Mass  about \nhow  our  Lord  God  changed  water  into  wine.. \nThat  same  Sunday  night  he  sat  in  misery  at \ntable,  for  through  excess  of  thirst  he  had  no \ndesire  to  eat.  As  soon  as  grace  was  read  he \nhurried  quickly  to  his  chapel,  for  he  was  so \novercome  with  agony  that  he  could  no  more \ncontain  himself,  and,  bursting  into  a  flood  of \nbitter  tears,  he  exclaimed : — O  God,  Thou  alone \nknowest  what  sorrow  and  anguish  of  heart  arc \nWherefore  was  I  born  into-  this  world  so  utterly \npoor  and  destitute  that  in  the  midst  of  all  abun- \ndance I  must  endure  such  grievous  need?  While \n\n*  The  Dominican  Convent  in  which  Blessed  Henry  Suso> \nlived  stood  on  a  small  island  at  the  point  where  the  Rhine \nflows  out  of  the  lake  of  Constance.  It  is  now  a  manufac- \ntory. \n\n\nHIS  ABSTINENCE  FKOM  DKINK.  75 \n\nhe  was  uttering  these  lamentations,  it  seemed  to \nhim  as  though  a  voice  spoke  within  his  soul, \nsaying : — Be  of  good  courage ;  God  will  soon \nrejoice  and  comfort  thee.  Weep  not,  brave \nknight ;  bear  thyself  well.  These  words  brought \nfresh  life  to  his  heart,  so  that  he  stopped  lament- \ning, and  tried  to  leave  off  weeping  altogether. \nBut  the  pain  he  suffered  would  not  let  him  feel \nquite  joyful,  and  his  tears  continued  falling, \nthough  something  inwardly  forced  him  to  smile, \nas  though  at  some  pleasant  adventure  close  at \nhand  which  God  would  ere  long  send  him.  In \nthis  state  he  went  to  compline.  His  mouth \nsang  while  his  heart  trembled,  and  it  seemed  to \nhim  the  while  that  he  should  soon  be  recom- \npensed for  all  his  sufferings.  And  so  it  came \nto  pass  not  long  afterwards,  and  even  that  very \nnight  he  received  part  payment  in  the  follow- \ning manner :  It  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  as \nthough  our  dear  Lady,  God's  Mother,  came  to \nhim  with  the  little  Child  Jesus  in  the  form  He \nwore  on  earth  when  seven  years  old.  The \nChild  carried  in  His  hand  a  small  goblet  of \nfresh  water.  The  goblet  was  glazed  all  over, \nand  was  a  little  larger  than  one  of  the  convent- \nmugs.  Then  our  dear  Lady  took  the  goblet  in \nher  hand,  and  gave  it  to  the  Servitor  to  drink. \n\n\n76  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nHe  received  it  with  great  eagerness,  and \nquenched  his  thirst  to  his  heart's  content. \n\nOne  day  as  he  was  walking  in  the  country, \nhe  happened  to  meet,  on  a  narrow  pathway,  a \npoor,  respectable  woman ;  and  when  the  woman \ndrew  near  him,  he  gave  up  to  her  the  dry  path, \nand  went  himself  into  the  wet  at  the  side,  in \norder  to  let  her  go  by.  The  woman,  turning \nround,  said  to  him : — Dear  master,  how  comes \nit  that  you,  a  gentleman  and  a  priest,  give  way \nso  humbly  to  me,  a  poor  woman,  who  ought \nmuch  more  fittingly  to  have  given  way  to  you  ? \nHe  replied : — Ah,  dear  woman,  it  is  my  cus- \ntom to  pay  willing  deference  and  honour  to  all \nwomen  for  the  sake  of  the  gentle  Mother  of  God \nin  heaven.  At  this  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  and \nhands  to  heaven,  and  spoke  thus : — I  beseech \nthis  same  augnst  Lady  that  you  may  not  depart \nthis  world  until  you  have  received  some  special \ngrace  from  her  whom  you  honour  in  all  of  us \nwomen.  He  answered  : — May  the  pure  Maiden \nMary  in  heaven  obtain  me  this. \n\nIt  happened  soon  afterwards  that,  though \nthere  was  abundance  of  every  kind  of  drink \nbefore  him,  he  left  the  table,  according  to  Ins \ncustom,  with  a  thirsting  mouth.  That  same \nnight,  when  he  lay  down  to  rest,  there  came \n\n\nOUR  LADY  GIVES  HIM  DRINK.  77 \n\nand  stood  before  him,  in  a  vision,  a  beautiful \nheavenly  form,  which  thus  addressed  him : — It \nis  I,  the  Mother,  who  gave  thee  to  drink  from \nthe  little  goblet  the  other  night ;  and,  since  thou \nart  so  exceeding  thirsty,  I  will  in  pity  give  thee \nonce  more  to  drink.  To  this  the  Servitor  made \nanswer  very  wisely : — Ah,  purest  one !  but  thou \nhast  nothing  in  thy  hand  out  of  which  to  give \nme  drink.  She  replied: — I  will  give  thee  to \ndrink  of  that  healthful  drink  which  flows  from \nmy  heart.  He  was  so  terrified  at  this  that  he \ncould  not  answer  her,  for  he  knew  well  how  un- \nworthy of  it  he  was.  Then  she  said  to  him, \nwith  great  kindliness  :  —  Inasmuch  as  Jesus, \nthe  treasure  of  heaven,  has  come  down  so  lov- \ningly into  thy  heart,  and  since  thy  parched \nmouth  has  so  dearly  earned  this  grace,  I  will \nbestow  it  on  thee  for  thy  special  consolation; \nand  it  is  not  a  corporeal  drink  which  I  will  give \nthee,  but  a  healthful,  spiritual,  and  excellent \ndrink  of  real  and  true  purity.  Then  he  let  it \nbe  as  she  had  said,  and  he  thought  within  him- \nself : — Thou  shalt  now  drink  thy  full,  and  be \nable  to  quench  thy  great  thirst.  When  he  had \nwell  drunk  of  this  heavenly  drink,  there  re- \nmained something  in  his  mouth  like  a  little  soft \nlump.      It  was   white,  and  of  the  nature  of \n\n\n78  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmanna ;  and  lie  kept  it  in  his  mouth  for  a  long \ntime,  as  a  voucher  for  the  truth  of  what  had \ntaken  place.  Afterwards,  he  hegan  to  weep \nfrom  his  very  heart,  and  he  thanked  God  and \nHis  dear  Mother  for  the  great  grace  that  they \nhad  vouchsafed  him. \n\nThat  same  night  our  dear  Lady  appeared  to \na  holy  person  in  another  town,  and  said : — Go \nand  tell  my  Child's  Servitor  from  me  what  is \nwritten  of  the  great  doctor,  John  Chrysostom \nof  the  golden  mouth,  how  that  one  day,  when \nhe  was  still  a  scholar,  as  he  was  kneeling  be- \nfore an  altar,  on  which  the  heavenly  Mother \nwas  represented  in  carved  wood  giving  the \nChild  in  her  arms  to  drink,  as  mothers  do,  the \nimage  of  the  Mother  bade  her  Child  stop  awhile, \nand  allowed  the  afore-named  scholar  likewise  to \ndrink  from  out  her  heart.  This  same  grace \nthe  Servitor  also  has  received  from  me  in  a \nvision,  and  as  a  voucher  for  its  truth,  mark \nthis:  that  from  this  time  forth  the  teaching \nwhich  will  proceed  from  his  holy  mouth  will  be \nmuch  more  fervent  and  pleasanter  to  hear  than \nit  has  ever  been  before.  When  the  Servitor \nheard  this,  he  lifted  up  his  hands,  heart,  and \neyes,  saying : — Praised  be  the  vein  of  the  out- \nflowing Godhead,  and  praised  beyond  praise  be \n\n\nOUR  LADY  GIVES  HIM  DKINK.  79 \n\nthe  sweet  Mother  of  all  graces  by  me,  poor \nworthless  man,  for  this  heavenly  gift. \n\nThe  same  holy  person  made  answer,  saying: \n— One  thing  more  I  have  to  tell  you.  Know, \nthen,  that  our  dear  Lady,  with  her  dear  Child, \nappeared  to  me  last  night  in  a  vision,  and  our \nLady  had  in  her  hand  a  beautiful  drinking-vessel \nof  water.  The  Child  and  the  Lady  spoke  loving \nwords  about  you,  and  then  she  held  the  vessel \nof  water  to  the  Child,  and  prayed  Him  to  pro- \nnounce His  blessing  over  it.  He  pronounced \nHis  holy  blessing  upon  the  water,  and  imme- \ndiately the  water  became  wine;  and  He  said: — \nIt  is  enough.  My  will  is  that  the  brother  should \nno  longer  mortify  himself  by  abstaining  from \nwine.  Let  him  henceforward  drink  wine  for \nhis  wasted  frame's  sake.  From  that  time  forth, \nnow  that  God  allowed  it  to  him,  the  Servitor \ndrank  wine  as  he  had  done  before. \n\nAt  this  same  period,  when  the  Servitor  had \nbecome  very  ill,  owing  to  the  excessive  burden \nof  the  afore-mentioned  exercises  which  he  had \nso  long  practised,  our  dear  Lord  appeared  to  a \nholy  friend  of  God,  holding  in  His  hand  a  box. \nShe  said  to  him: — Lord,  what  meanest  Thou  by \nthe  box  1  He  answered : — I  mean  to  cure  my \nServitor  with  it,  for  he  is  sick.     Then  our  Lord \n\n\n80  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwent  to  the  Servitor  with  the  box,  and  opened \nit,  and  in  the  box  there  was  fresh  blood.  He \ntook  out  some  of  the  blood,  and  spread  it  over \nthe  Servitor's  heart,  so  that  it  became  all  bloody, \nand  after  that  He  spread  it  over  his  hands  and \nfeet  and  all  his  limbs.  Upon  this,  she  said  to \nHim: — Ah,  Lord!  why  dost  Thou  mark  him \nthus?  or  is  it  Thy  will  to  impress  upon  him  Thy \nfive  love-marks  I  He  answered : — Yes.  I  will \nlovingly  mark  his  heart  and  all  his  frame  with \nsufferings,  and  I  will  heal  him,  and  restore  him \nto  health,  and  I  will  make  of  him  a  man  after \nMy  whole  heart. \n\nAt  length,  after  the  Servitor  had  led,  from \nhis  eighteenth  to  his  fortieth  year,  a  life  of  ex- \nercises, according  to  the  outer  man — such  as \nhave  been  in  part  described  above — and  when \nhis  whole  frame  was  now  so  worn  and  wasted \nthat  nothing  remained  for  him  except  to  die  or \nleave  off  these  exercises,  he  left  them  off;  and \nGod  showed  him  that  all  this  austerity  and  all \nthese  practices  were  nothing  more  than  a  good \nbeginning,  and  a  breaking  through  his  un- \ncrushed  natural  man ;  and  he  saw  that  he  must \npress  on  still  farther  in  quite  another  way,  if  he \nwished  to  reach  perfection. \n\n\nTHE  SCHOOL  OF  TEUE  DETACHMENT.       81 \n\n\nChapter  XXI. \n\nHow  he  was  directed  to  the  rational  school,  in  which \nthe  art  of  true  detachment  is  taught. \n\nOne  day  the  Servitor  was  sitting  on  his \nbench  after  matins,  and  while  he  was  absorbed \nin  meditation  his  bodily  senses  became  ab- \nstracted, and  it  seemed  to  his  inward  vision  that \na  noble  youth  came  down  from  above,  and, \nstanding  before  him,  addressed  him  thus: — \nThou  hast  been  long  enough  in  the  lower \nschools,  and  hast  exercised  thyself  sufficiently \nin  them,  and  art  now  full-grown.  Up  then \nwith  me.  I  will  take  thee  to  the  highest  school \nwhich  is  to  be  found  in  this  world;  and  thou \nshalt  diligently  learn  there  the  highest  of  all \ncrafts,  which  shall  establish  thee  in  divine  peace, \nand  bring  thy  holy  beginnings  to  a  blissful  end. \nThe  Servitor  was  rejoiced  at  this,  and  stood  up; \nupon  which,  the  youth  took  him  by  the  hand \nand  carried  him,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  into  a \nland  above  the  ken  of  sense.  There  was  a \nbeautiful  house  there,  which  looked  as  if  it  were \nthe  abode  of  religious  men,  and  those  who  prao \ntised  the  afore-named  craft  dwelt  in  it.  When \nhe  entered  the  house,  they  received  him  kindly \n\nG \n\n\n82  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  greeted  him  lovingly,  and  then  they  went \nin  haste  to  the  Master  Superior,  and  told  him \nthat  one  had  come  who  also  wished  to  he  his \ndisciple,  and  to  learn  the  craft.  He  answered: \n— I  will  look  at  him  and  see  how  he  pleases  me. \nWhen  he  saw  the  Servitor,  he  smiled  upon  him \nvery  kindly,  and  said: — Be  assured  that  this \nstranger  may  become  an  excellent  professor  of \nthis  high  craft,  if  he  will  patiently  submit  to  the \nstrait  stocks,  in  which  he  must  be  inwardly  con- \nfined. But  the  Servitor  understood  not  these \nobscure  words ;  so  he  turned  him  to  the  youth \nwho  had  brought  him  thither,  and  asked  him, \nsaying: — Tell  me,  dear  comrade,  what  is  the \nhighest  school,  and  what  is  the  craft  taught  there \nof  which  thou  spokest  to  me  f  The  youth  an- \nswered :  —  The  highest  school,  and  the  craft \nwhich  is  taught  there,  consist  simply  in  an \nentire  and  perfect  detachment  from  self;  that \nis  to  say,  how  a  man  may  attain  to  such  an \nabiding  spirit  of  self-renunciation,  that,  no  mat- \nter how  God  treats  him,  either  directly  by  Him- \nself, or  indirectly  through  creatures,  or  how  he \nfeels,  whether  joyful  or  sad,  the  one  object  of \nhis  strivings  shall  ever  be  to  continue  always \nthe  same  by  a  perpetual  giving  up  of  self,  as  far \nas  human  frailty  will  allow,  and  to  make  God's \n\n\nTHE  SCHOOL  OF  TRUE  DETACHMENT.       83 \n\nhonour  and  glory  his  sole  aim,  just  in  the  way \nthat  the  dear  Christ  acted  towards  His  heavenly \nFather.  When  the  Senator  heard  this,  he  was \nwell  pleased  at  it,  and  he  resolved  to  study  the \ncraft,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  meet \nwith  no  difficulties  so  great  as  to  make  him  turn \naside  from  this  intention.  Moreover,  he  wished \nto  build  a  house  there,  and  to  undertake  much \nactive  work.  The  youth  prevented  him  from \ndoing  this,  saying : — This  craft  requires  a  com- \nplete cessation  from  activity.  The  less  a  man \ndoes  here,  the  more  he  has  really  done.* \n\nImmediately  after  this  discourse  the  Servitor \ncame  to  himself  again,  and  he  continued  to  sit \nstill  as  before.  Then  he  began  to  reflect  deeply \nupon  this  discourse,  and  he  observed  that  it  was \nthe  same  pure  and  simple  truth  which  Christ \nHimself  has  taught.  Thereupon  he  proceeded \nto  hold  converse  with  himself  interiorly,  saying: \n— Look  inwards,  friend,  and  thou  wilt  find  thy- \nself still  really  there,  and  wilt  perceive  that,  not- \nwithstanding all  thy  outward  practices,  in  which \nthou  didst  of  thy  own  choice  exercise  thyself, \nthou  art  still  undetached  from  self  in  what  re- \n\n*  He  alluded  in  this  to  that  mode  of  acting  in  which  a \nman  is  a  hindrance  to  himself,  and  does  not  seek  God's \nhonour  purely. \n\n\n84  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENEY  SUSO. \n\nlates  to  contradictions  at  the  hands  of  others. \nThou  art  still  like  a  timid  hare,  which  lies  hid- \nden in  a  thicket,  and  is  terrified  at  every  rust- \nling leaf.  Even  so  is  it  with  thee  too.  Thou \nart  terrified  every  day  at  the  sufferings  which \ncome  upon  thee.  The  sight  of  thy  enemies \nmakes  thee  lose  colour.  When  thou  shouldst \nlet  thyself  be  humiliated,  thou  takest  to  flight. \nWhen  thou  shouldst  expose  thyself  to  the  blow, \nthou  hidest.  When  thou  art  praised,  thou  laugh- \nest.  When  thou  art  blamed,  thou  mournest. \nIt  may  well  be  true  that  thou  needest  a  higher \nschool.  Then  sighing  inwardly,  he  looked  up \nto  God,  and  said: — O  God,  how  nakedly  has \nthis  truth  been  shown  me !  Woe  is  me !  When \nshall  I  ever  become  a  truly  detached  man  ? \n\n\nChapter  XXII. \n\nHow  painful  it  is  to  die  interiorly. \nNow  that  the  Servitor  had  been  released  by \nGod  from  exterior  penances  of  the  kind  described \nabove,  by  which  his  life  had  been  imperilled,  his \nworn-out  frame  was  so  rejoiced  at  this,  that  he \nused  to  weep  for  joy  whenever  he  called  to  mind \nhis  penitential  bonds,  and  all  the  cruel  sufferings \n\n\nINTERIOR  CROSSES.  85 \n\nand  combats  which  he  had  passed  through. \nAnd  he  said  within  himself: — Henceforth,  dear \nLord,  I  will  lead  a  quiet  life  and  enjoy  myself. \nI  will  quench  my  thirst  fully  with  wine  and \nwater,  and  I  will  sleep  unbound  on  my  straw \nbed.  Oh !  how  often  and  how  earnestly  I  have \nlonged  that  this  comfort  might  be  mine  before \nI  died!  I  have  been  long  enough  wearing  my- \nself away.  Henceforth  the  time  is  come  for  me \nto  rest.  Such  were  the  presumptuous  thoughts \nand  fancies  which  then  floated  before  his  mind. \nAlas !  he  knew  not  yet  what  God  had  decreed \nconcerning  him. \n\nWhen  he  had  spent  several  weeks  very \npleasantly  in  these  agreeable  thoughts,  it  hap- \npened one  day  that,  as  he  was  sitting  ac- \ncording to  custom  on  the  bench  which  was  his \nbed,  he  began  to  contemplate  that  true  saying \nof  the  suffering  Job,  \"Militia  est  vita  hominis \nsuper  terram\"  (Job  vii.  1), — The  life  of  man \nin  this  world  is  nothing  else  but  a  knight's  life \nof  warfare.  As  he  meditated  on  these  words, \nhis  senses  became  abstracted,  and  it  seemed \nto  him  that  there  came  in  a  comely  youth,  of \nvery  manly  form,  who  brought  him  a  pair  of \nknight's  shoes,  of  excellent  quality,  with  other \nclothing  such  as  knights  are  wont  to  wear.    The \n\n\n86  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nyouth  went  up  to  the  Servitor,  and  vested  him \nin  the  knight's  attire,  saying: — Hearken,  Sir \nKnight.  Hitherto  thou  hast  been  a  squire: \nGod  wills  thee  now  to  be  a  knight.  The  Ser- \nvitor looked  at  himself  in  the  knight's  shoes, \nand  marvelling  greatly  in  his  heart,  exclaimed : \n— Wonderful,  O  God  !  What  has  happened  to \nme?  What  have  I  become?  Must  I  be  a \nknight  ?  I  had  much  rather  lead  a  comfortable \nlife  than  this.  Then  he  said  to  the  youth : — \nWell,  since  God  wills  me  to  be  a  knight,  if  only \nI  had  been  made  one  gloriously  in  a  battle,  I \nshould  have  preferred  it.  The  youth  turned \nhalf  aside,  and,  with  a  laugh,  answered: — Be \nnot  anxious.  You  shall  have  fighting  enough. \nHe  who  resolves  to  bear  himself  undauntedly  as \nGod's  knight  in  this  spiritual  warfare  will  meet \nwith  much  harder  conflicts  than  ever  fell  to  the \nlot  of  the  famed  heroes  of  olden  time,  whose \nknightly  prowess  the  world  loves  to  recount  in \nsong  and  tale.  Thou  fanciest  that  God  has \ntaken  thy  yoke  oif  thee,  and  that  He  has  cast \naway  thy  bonds,  so  that  thou  canst  now  attend \nto  thy  comfort.  But  it  is  not  so,  as  yet.  It  is \nnot  God's  will  to  take  thy  bonds  from  off  thee. \nHe  will  only  change  them,  and  make  them  far \nheavier  than  they  ever  were  before.     The  Ser- \n\n\nINTEKIOR  CKOSSES.  87 \n\nvitor  was  struck  with  terror  at  this,  and  said : — \nAlas,  my  God !  what  art  Thou  about  to  do  with \nme?  I  fancied  that  all  was  at  an  end,  just  as \nit  is  going  to  begin.  My  straits  are  only  now \ncommencing,  as  it  seems  to  me.  Ah,  Lord  of \nHeaven!  what  mean  Thy  dealings  with  me? \nAm  I  alone  a  sinner,  and  are  all  other  men \njust,  that  Thou  dost  in  this  wise  use  Thy  rod \non  me,  poor  wretch,  and  sparest  many  others  ? \nThou  hast  acted  thus  with  me  since  my  child- \nhood's days,  when  Thou  didst  crucify  my  youth- \nful frame  with  heavy  and  weary  sicknesses.  I \nfancied  that  I  had  had  enough  by  this  time; \nHe  answered : — No !  it  is  not  yet  enough.  Thou \nmust  be  tried  and  proved  to  the  very  bottom  in \nall  things,  if  it  is  to  go  well  with  thee.  The \nServitor  said : — Lord !  show  me  how  much  suf- \nfering I  have  still  before  me.  He  answered: \n— Look  upwards  at  the  heavens  above  thee, \nand  if  thou  canst  count  the  countless  multitude \nof  the  stars,  thou  canst  count  also  the  sufferings \nwhich  still  await  thee;  and  as  the  stars  seem \nsmall,  and  yet  are  great,  even  so  thy  sufferings \nare  small  in  seeming  to  the  eyes  of  unexercised \nmen;  while,  judged  of  by  thy  own  feelings,  they \nwill  prove  great  for  thee  to  bear.  The  Servitor \nsaid: — Ah,  Lord!   show  me  the  sufferings  be* \n\n\n88  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nforehand,  that  I  may  know  them.  He  answered : \n— No !  it  is  better  for  thee  not  to  know  them, \nlest  thou  shouldst  lose  heart  beforehand.  Never- \ntheless, among  the  countless  sufferings  which \nawait  thee,  I  will  tell  thee  three. \n\nThe  first  is  this.  Hitherto  thou  hast  struck \nthyself  with  thy  own  hands,  and  left  off  striking \nwhen  thou  wouldst,  and  hast  had  pity  upon  thy- \nself. But  now  I  will  myself  take  hold  of  thee, \nand  give  thee  over  quite  defenceless  into  the \nhands  of  strangers,  and  thou  shalt  suffer  pub- \nlicly the  loss  of  thy  good  name,  through  the \nmeans  of  certain  blinded  men.  This  will  press \nupon  thee  more  painfully  than  the  sharp  cross \non  thy  wounded  back  did;  for  in  thy  former \nexercises  thou  wast  held  in  high  repute  among \nmen,  whereas  now  thou  shalt  be  beaten  down \nand  brought  to  naught  in  the  sight  of  all. \n\nThe  second  suffering  is  this.  Many  as  have \nbeen  the  bitter  deaths  which  thou  hast  inflicted \non  thyself,  nevertheless  this  has  always  remained \nto  thee  by  God's  providence,  that  thy  disposition \nis  an  affectionate  and  love-seeking  one.  Now \nit  shall  befall  thee,  that  in  those  very  quarters \nwhere  thou  shalt  look  for  special  love  and  faith- \nfulness thou  shalt  meet  with  great  unfaithful- \nness, sufferings,  and  affliction.     And  this  shall \n\n\nINTERIOR  CROSSES.  89 \n\nhappen  in  such  manifold  ways,  that  those  who \nshall  continue  more  than  ordinarily  true  to  thee \nwill  have  to  suffer  with  thee  from  compassion. \n\nThe  third  suffering  is  this.  Hitherto  thou \nhast  been  like  an  unweaned  sucking  child,  and \nthou  hast  floated  in  divine  sweetness,  as  a  fish \nin  the  sea.  I  will  now  withdraw  this  from  thee, \nand  let  thee  starve  and  wither ;  and  thou  shalt \nbe  forsaken  both  by  God  and  the  world,  and \nbe  openly  despised  by  friends  and  foes.  In  a \nword:  whatever  thou  shalt  take  in  hand  in \norder  to  delight  or  comfort  thee,  shall  come  to \nnaught. \n\nThe  Servitor  was  struck  with  such  conster- \nnation at  these  words  that  his  whole  frame  trem- \nbled; and  springing  up  impetuously,  he  fell  down \nupon  the  ground  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and \ncalling  upon  God  with  a  cry  of  agony  from  his \nvery  heart,  besought  Him  by  His  kind  fatherly \ngoodness  to  take  away  from  him,  if  it  were  pos- \nsible, this  great  misery ;  or,  if  this  could  not  be, \nto  let  the  heavenly  will  of  His  eternal  ordinance \nbe  accomplished  in  him. \n\nAfter  he  had  lain  a  good  while  in  this  ex- \ntremity of  anguish,  something  spoke  within  him \nthus: — Be  of  good  cheer.  I  Myself  will  be \nwith  thee,  and  I  will   aid  thee   graciously  to \n\n\n90  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\novercome  in  all  these  unusual  trials.  There- \nupon he  arose,  and  gave  himself  up  entirely \ninto  God's  hands.  Now  when  it  became  morn- \ning,  and  he  was  sitting  sorrowfully  in  his  cell \nafter  Mass,  thinking  over  these  things,  and \nfrozen  with  cold,  for  it  was  winter,  he  heard  a \nvoice  within  him  saying : — Open  the  window  of \nthe  cell,  and  look  out  and  learn.  He  opened \nthe  window,  and  looked  out,  and  he  beheld  a \ndog  running  about  in  the  middle  of  the  cloister \nwith  a  worn-out  foot-cloth  in  its  mouth.  The \ndog  was  acting  very  strangely  with  the  foot- \ncloth,  for  he  kept  tossing  it  up  and  down,  and \ntearing  holes  in  it.  Thereupon  the  Servitor \nlooked  up  to  heaven,  sighing  deeply,  and  it  was \nsaid  to  him: — Even  so  shalt  thou  be  in  thy \nbrethren's  mouths.  Then  the  thought  came  to \nhim : — Since  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  resign  thy*- \nself  to  it ;  and,  as  the  foot-cloth  suffers  itself  to \nbe  maltreated  in  silence,  even  so  do  thou.  He \nwent  down  into  the  cloister,  and,  taking  up  the \nfoot-cloth,  preserved  it  for  many  years  as  a \njewel  most  dear  to  him ;  and  as  often  as  he  felt \ninclined  to  break  out  into  impatience,  he  used  to \nbring  it  forth,  that  he  might  recognise  himself \nin  it  and  keep  silence  in  regard  to  all  men.  If \nit  sometimes  happened  that  he  half  turned  away \n\n\nINTERIOR  CROSSES.  91 \n\nhis  face  in  anger  from  some  of  those  who  per- \nsecuted him,  he  was  inwardly  rebuked  for  it, \nand  it  was  said  to  him : — Remember  that  I,  thy \nLord,  turned  not  away  My  beautiful  face  from \nthose  who  spat  upon  Me.  Then  he  would  bit- \nterly repent  of  what  he  had  done,  and  turn \nhimself  to  them  again  very  lovingly. \n\nIn  the  beginning,  when  he  met  with  any \nsuffering,  the  thought  would  come  to  his  mind : \n— O  God,  that  this  suffering  were  at  an  end, \nthat  I  might  have  done  with  it!  Thereupon \nthe  Child  Jesus  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  on \nour  Lady's  feast  of  Candlemas,  and  rebuked \nhim,  saying : — Thou  dost  not  yet  know  how  to \nsuffer ;  but  I  will  teach  thee :  Behold !  when \nthou  art  in  any  suffering,  thou  shouldst  not \nlook  onwards  to  the  end  of  that  suffering, \nfancying  that  thou  wilt  then  be  at  rest;  but \nso  long  as  the  suffering  lasts,  thou  shouldst  be \ngetting  thyself  ready  to  accept  with  patience \nanother  suffering,  which  is  sure  to  follow  in \nits  train.  Thou  shouldst  do  like  a  maiden \npicking  roses.  When  she  has  picked  one \nrose  from  the  rose-bush,  this  does  not  satisfy \nher,  but  she  resolves  to  pick  many  more  from \nit.  Even  so  do  thou.  Make  up  thy  mind \nfor  this   beforehand,  that,  when  one  suffering \n\n\n92  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ncomes  to  an  end,  another  will  forthwith  meet \nthee. \n\nAmong  other  friends  of  God  who  foretold  to \nhim  the  new  sufferings  which  were  hanging \nover  him,  there  came  to  him  a  person  of  emi- \nnent sanctity,  who  said  that,  on  the  Angels'  fes- \ntival, after  matins  she  had  prayed  to  God  for \nhim  with  exceeding  earnestness ;  and  that  it \nseemed  to  her  in  a  vision  that  she  was  carried \nto  the  place  where  he  then  was,  and  that  she \nbeheld  a  beautiful  rose-tree  grow  up  over  him, \nand  spread  itself  on  all  sides  far  and  wide.  It \nwas  of  a  ravishing  form,  and  full  of  lovely  red \nroses.  On  looking  up  to  heaven  it  seemed  to \nher  that  the  sun  rose  all  beautiful,  without  a \ncloud,  and  with  much  splendour.  Now  there \nstood  in  the  sun's  radiance  a  lovely  Child  in  the \nform  of  a  cross ;  and  she  saw  a  ray  come  forth \nfrom  the  sun  to  the  Servitor's  heart,  and  it  was \nso  mighty  that  it  set  on  fire  all  his  veins  and \nlimbs.  But  the  rose-tree  bowed  itself  between, \nand  did  its  best  with  its  thick  boughs  to  shut  out \nthe  sunshine  from  his  heart.  Nevertheless  it \ncould  not  succeed  in  this,  for  the  outstreaming \nrays  were  so  powerful,  that  they  pierced  through \nall  the  boughs  and  shone  down  right  into  his \nheart.     Then   she   saw  the  Child  come  forth \n\n\nINTERIOR  CROSSES.  93 \n\nfrom  the  sun,  and  she  said  to  him: — Dear \nChild,  whither  art  Thou  going  ?  He  answered : \n— I  am  going  to  My  beloved  Servitor.  Upon \nwhich  she  said : — Sweet  Child,  what  means  the \nsun's  brightness  in  Thy  Servitor's  heart?  He \nreplied: — I  have  made  his  loving  heart  thus \nbright  and  glorious,  that  the  reflection  of  its \nradiance,  streaming  forth  from  out  his  heart, \nmay  draw  lovingly  the  hearts  of  all  men  to  Me. \nThe  thick  rose-tree,  which  represents  the  mani- \nfold sufferings  that  await  him,  cannot  hinder \nthis,  but  right  nobly  it  shall  be  accomplished \nin  him. \n\nInasmuch  as  seclusion  is  profitable  to  a  be- \nginner, the  Servitor  resolved  to  remain  for  more \nthan  ten  years  secluded  in  his  monastery  from \nall  the  world.  When  he  went  from  table  he \nused  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  chapel  and  re- \nmain there.  He  refused  to  hold  any  long  con- \nversations at  the  convent -door  or  elsewhere \nwith  women,  or  even  with  men,  nor  would  he \nlook  at  them.  He  fixed  a  short  limit  for  his \neyes,  beyond  which  he  suffered  them  not  to \nlook ;  and  the  limit  was  five  feet.  He  remained \nalways  at  home,  and  would  never  go  out  either \ninto  the  town  or  the  country.  His  one  aim  was \nto  practise  solitude.    All  this  watchfulness,  how- \n\n\n94  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\never,  served liim  nothing;  for  during  these  years \nthere  fell  upon  him  exceeding  grievous  suffer- \nings; and  they  crushed  him  down  so  heavily \nthat  he  became  an  object  of  pity  to  himself  and \nothers. \n\nIn  order  that  his  prison-house  might  be \nmore  agreeable  to  him  during  the  ten  years \nwhich  he  had  resolved  to  spend  in  voluntary \nconfinement  in  his  chapel,  he  directed  a  painter \nto  draw  for  him  the  holy  fathers  of  olden  time \nwith  their  sayings,  as  well  as  other  devout  pic- \ntures, calculated  to  encourage  a  sufferer  to  pa- \ntience under  afflictions.  But  God  would  not \nlet  this  be  according  to  his  wish ;  for  when  the \npainter  had  sketched  out  the  ancient  fathers \nwrith  charcoal  on  the  chapel -walls,  his  eyes \nbecame  so  bad  that  he  could  no  longer  see  to \ndraw.  He  therefore  begged  permission  to  de- \npart, saying  that  the  work  must  wait  until  he \ngot  well  again.  The  Servitor  turned  to  the \npainter,  and  inquired  how  long  it  would  take \nhim  to  get  well.  The  painter  answered: — \nTwelve  weeks.  Upon  this  the  Servitor  told \nhim  to  set  up  again  the  ladder,  which  he  had \ntaken  down,  against  the  outlines  of  the  anciejut \nfathers  on  the  wrall;  and  when  this  was  done, \nhe  mounted  the  ladder,  and,  after  rubbing  his \n\n\nINTERIOR  CROSSES.  95 \n\nhands  upon  the  pictures,  stroked  the  painter's \nsuffering  eyes,  saying : — In  the  might  of  God, \nand  through  the  holiness  of  these  ancient \nfathers,  I  bid  you,  master,  come  back  here  to- \nmorrow morning  with  your  eyes  quite  cured. \nEarly  next  morning  the  painter  came  back  joy- \nous and  well,  and  he  thanked  God  and  the \nServitor  for  his  cure.  The  Servitor,  however, \ndid  not  ascribe  it  to  himself,  but  to  the  ancient \nfathers,  on  whose  pictures  he  had  rubbed  his \nhands. \n\nDuring  this  same  period  it  seemed  as  if  God \nhad  given  leave  to  the  evil  spirits  and  to  all  men \nto  torment  him.  Innumerable  were  the  suffer- \nings which  he  then  endured  from  the  evil  spirits, \nwho,  in  horrible  assumed  forms  and  with  savage \ncruelty,  caused  him  so  much  pain  and  grief,  day \nand  night,  awake  and  asleep,  that  his  sufferings \nfrom  this  source  were  exceeding  great. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  he  was  tempted  with  a \ngreat  longing  to  eat  meat,  for  he  had  passed \nmany  years  without  touching  meat.  Now,  after \nhe  had  eaten  the  meat,  and  had  scarcely  finished \nsatisfying  his  longing,  there  came  and  stood \nover  against  him,  in  a  vision,  a  monstrous  hellish \nfigure,  who,  after  repeating  the  verse,  a  Adhuc \nescao  eorum  erant  in  ore  ipsorum,  et  ira  Dei  des- \n\n\n96  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ncendit  super  eos\"  (Ps.lxxvii.  30;  Numb.  xi.  33), — \nAs  yet  the  morsel  was  in  their  mouth,  and  the \nwrath  of  God  came  down  upon  them, — cried  out \nin  a  barking  voice  to  those  who  stood  by : — Tins \nmonk  is  guilty  of  death,  and  I  will  execute  the \nsentence  on  him.  But  when  they  would  not  suf- \nfer this,  he  drew  forth  a  horrible  auger,  saying : \n— Since  I  may  not  do  any  thing  else  to  thee,  I \nwill  at  least  torture  thy  body  with  this  auger; \nand  I  will  bore  it  into  thee  through  thy  mouth \nin  such  a  manner,  that  the  anguish  which  thou \nshalt  suffer  will  be  as  great  as  the  pleasure  thou \ndidst  take  in  eating  the  meat.  And  having  said \nthis,  he  drove  the  auger  in  cruel  fashion  against \nthe  Servitor's  mouth.  Whereupon  immediately \nhis  chin-bones  and  teeth  swelled  up,  and  his \nmouth  became  so  swollen  that  he  could  not  open \nit ;  and  for  three  days  he  could  not  eat  meat  or \nany  thing  else,  except  only  what  he  could  suck \nup  through  his  teeth. \n\n\nINTERIOR  SUFFERINGS.  97 \n\nChapter  XX  III. \n\nOf  interior  sufferings. \n\nAmong  his  various  sufferings,  there  were \nthree  interior  ones  which  caused  him  great  tor- \nment. One  of  these  was  impious  imaginations \nagainst  the  faith.  Thus,  there  would  come \ninto  his  mind  the  thought : — How  was  it  pos- \nsible for  God  to  become  man,  with  many  other \nthoughts  of  that  kind.  The  more  he  fought \nagainst  them,  the  more  perplexed  he  became. \nGod  suffered  him  to  remain  under  these  temp- \ntations about  nine  years,  during  which  he  ceased \nnot  with  wailing  heart  and  weeping  eyes  to \ncry  to  God  and  all  the  Saints  for  help.  At  last, \nwhen  God  deemed  that  the  time  was  come,  He \nset  him  entirely  free  from  them,  and  bestowed \nupon  him  great  steadfastness  and  clearness  of \nfaith. \n\nThe  second  interior  suffering  was  an  inordi- \nnate sadness.  He  had  such  a  continual  heavi- \nness of  spirit,  that  it  was  as  if  a  mountain  lay \nupon  his  heart.  A  partial  cause  of  this  was, \nthat  his  turning  away  from  creatures  to  God \nhad  been  carried  out  with  such  excessive  speed \nand  severity,  that  his  bodily  frame  had  suffered \nH \n\n\n98  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ngreatly  from  it.      This  trial  lasted  for  eight \nyears. \n\nThe  third  interior  suffering  was  a  tempta- \ntion which  assailed  him,  that  it  would  never  be \nwell  with  his  soul  hereafter,  but  that  he  must \nbe  damned  eternally,  no  matter  how  rightly  he \nshould  act,  or  how  many  spiritual  exercises  he \nshould  practise ;  for  all  this  would  be  of  no \navail  to  place  him  among  the  saved,  and  it  all \nseemed  to  him  lost  labour  from  the  beginning. \nHis  mind  was  saddened  with  this  thought  day \nand  night ;  and  when  he  had  to  go  into  choir, \nor  to  do  any  other  good  work,  the  temptation \npresented  itself: — What  does  it  profit  thee  to \nserve  God?  Then  he  would  say  to  himself, \nvery  mournfully  : — Surely  there  is  nothing  but \na  curse  for  thee.  Never  will  it  be  well  with \nthee.  Give  it  all  up,  then,  betimes.  Thou  art \nlost,  do  what  thou  wilt.  Then  he  would  think \nwithin  himself: — Alas,  utterly  wretched  that  I \nam,  whither  shall  I  betake  myself?  If  I  quit \nthe  Order,  hell  will  be  my  lot ;  and  if  I  remain \nin  it,  nothing  but  misery  awaits  me.  Alas,  Lord \nGod !  was  there  ever  a  man  worse  off  than  I \nam?  Sometimes  he  would  stand  deep  sunk \ninto  himself,  and  groan  many  times  heavily, \nwhile  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.     Then  he \n\n\nINTERIOR  SUFFERINGS.  99 \n\nwould  beat  his  breast  and  say : — Alas,  O  God ! \nam  I  then  never  to  be  saved?  Oh!  what  a \nmournful  thing  is  this !  Must  I  be  miserable \nhere  and  hereafter  ?  Woe  is  me,  that  I  ever \ncame  forth  from  my  mother's  womb. \n\nThis  temptation  fell  upon  him  through  an \ninordinate  fear.  It  had  been  told  him  that  his \nadmission  into  the  Order  had  been  connected \nwith  the  bestowal  of  temporal  goods,  and  from \nthis  comes  the  sin  called  simony,  which  consists \nin  the  purchase  of  something  spiritual  with \nsomething  temporal.  What  he  heard  sunk \ndeep  into  his  heart,  until  at  length  he  was \nquite  overpowered  by  the  anguish  that  it  caused \nhim. \n\nAfter  this  terrible  suffering  had  lasted  about \nten  years,  all  which  time  he  never  looked  upon \nhimself  in  any  other  light  than  as  one  damned, \nhe  went  to  the  holy  Master  Eckart,  and  made \nknown  to  him  his  suffering.  The  holy  man \ndelivered  him  from  it,  and  thus  set  him  free \nfrom  the  hell  in  which  he  had  so  long  dwelt. \n\n\n100  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nChapter  XXIV. \n\nHow  he  went  forth  to  succour  and  to  save  his  neighbour. \n\nAfter  he  had  spent  many  years  in  attend- \ning to  his  interior  life,  God  urged  him,  by  mani- \nfold revelations,  to  apply  himself  also  to  the  sal- \nvation of  his  neighbour.  The  great  sufferings \nwhich  befell  him  in  this  work  were  beyond  num- \nber and  measure.  But  how  many  souls  were  suc- \ncoured by  him  was  once  shown  by  God  to  one  of \nHis  chosen  friends  named  Anna,  who  was,  more- \nover, a  spiritual  daughter  of  the  Servitor.  She \nwas  one  day  rapt  in  ecstasy  at  prayer,  and  she \nsaw  the  Servitor  saying  Mass  upon  a  lofty  moun- \ntain. An  innumerable  multitude  of  children \nwere  hanging  in  and  on  him,  but  each  differ- \nently from  the  rest;  for  the  more  any  one  had  of \nGod,  the  more  firmly  he  rested  on  the  Servitor; \nand  the  more  inwardly  he  was  drawn  into  the \nServitor,  the  more  perfectly  God  turned  Himself \nto  him.  She  saw,  moreover,  that  the  Servitor \nwas  praying  earnestly  for  them  all  to  the  ever- \nlasting God,  whom  he  held  in  his  priestly  hands. \nUpon  this,  she  besought  God  to  make  known \nto  her  what  the  vision  meant.  And  God  an- \nswered her  in  this  wise : — The  innumerable  mul- \n\n\nHIS  ZEAL  FOR  SOULS.  101 \n\ntitude  of  children  who  hang  npon  him  are  all \nthose  who  are  his  penitents  or  disciples,  or  are \nin  other  ways  bound  to  him  by  ties  of  special \nlove  and  faithfulness.  All  these  he  has  com- \nmended to  Me  in  such  sort,  that  I  will  guide \ntheir  life  to  a  good  end,  and  they  shall  never  be \nparted  from  My  gladsome  countenance.  What- \never heavy  sufferings  may  on  this  account  be- \nfall him,  shall  be  all  fully  made  up  to  him  by \nthe  joys  which  I  will  give  him. \n\nBefore  the  above-named  noble  maiden  be- \ncame acquainted  with  the  Servitor  of  the  Eter- \nnal Wisdom,  she  had  received  from  God  an \ninterior  drawing  and  desire  to  see  him.  Now \nit  happened  once  that  she  was  rapt  in  ecstasy, \nand  in  the  vision  a  voice  bade  her  go  to  the \nplace  where  the  Servitor  then  was,  and  see  him. \nShe  answered : — I  do  not  know  him  among  the \nmultitude  of  the  brothers.  The  voice  replied : \n— It  is  easy  to  know  him  among  the  others. \nHe  has  around  his  head  a  green  ring,  entwined \nround  and  round  with  red  and  white  roses,  like \na  garland  of  roses.  The  white  roses  signify  his \npurity,  and  the  red  roses  his  patience  amid  the \nmanifold  sufferings  which  he  must  endure ;  and \njust  as  the  ring  of  gold,  which  it  is  the  custom \nto  paint  round  the  heads  of  Saints,  represents \n\n\n102  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  everlasting  bliss  which  they  now  possess  in \nGod,  even  so  the  ring  of  roses  indicates  the  mul- \ntiplicity of  sufferings  which  God's  dear  friends \nmust  bear  while  they  are  still  serving  Him \nin  this  world  with  knightly  exercises.  Then \nthe  angel  led  her  in  the  vision  to  where  he  was, \nand  she  soon  recognised  him  by  the  ring  of  roses \nwhich  was  round  his  head. \n\nDuring  this  same  period  of  suffering,  the \nServitor's  greatest  interior  support  came  from \nthe  continual  help  which  the  holy  angels  gave \nhim. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  when  his  outward  senses \nwere  absorbed  in  ecstasy,  it  seemed  to  him  in  a \nvision  that  he  was  carried  to  a  place  in  which \nthere  was  a  very  great  number  of  the  angelic \nhost,  and  that  one  of  those  who  stood  nearest  to \nhim  said : — Put  forth  thy  hand  and  look.  He \nput  forth  his  hand  and  looked ;  and  out  of  the \nmiddle  of  his  hand  there  sprung  up  a  beautiful \nred  rose,  with  lovely  green  leaves.  The  rose \nwas  so  large  that  it  covered  his  hand  to  his \nfingers,  and  it  was  so  beautiful  and  resplendent \nthat  it  gave  great  pleasure  to  his  eyes.  He \nturned  his  hand  round  outside  and  inside,  and \non  both  sides  it  was  ravishing  to  look  at.  Greatly \nmarvelling  in  his  heart  at  this,  he  said : — Dear \n\n\nFALSE  ACCUSATIONS.  103 \n\ncomrade,  what  means  this  vision  %  The  youth \nanswered: — It  means  sufferings  upon  suffer- \nings, and  over  again  sufferings  upon  sufferings, \nwhich  God  intends  to  give  thee.  This  is  what \nis  signified  by  the  four  roses  on  thy  two  hands \nand  thy  two  feet.  The  Servitor,  with  a  deep \nsigh,  said : — Alas,  gentle  Lord !  it  is  a  singular \nordinance  of  God  that  sufferings  should  cause \nsuch  pain  to  men,  and  yet  be  so  beautiful  an \nadornment  to  them  spiritually. \n\n\nChapter  XXV. \n\nConcerning  manifold  sufferings. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  he  came  to  a  small  town, \nand  near  the  town  there  was  a  wooden  image,  a \ncrucifix,  which  stood  in  a  little  house,  as  the \ncustom  is ;  and  it  was  the  popular  belief  that \nmany  miracles  were  wrought  there,  on  which \naccount  people  used  to  bring  thither  wax  figures \nand  much  wax  in  honour  of  God.  When  he \narrived  opposite  the  crucifix,  he  went  up  and \nknelt  before  it;  and  then,  after  he  had  spent \nsome  time  in  prayer,  he  arose  and  proceeded \nwith  his  companion  to  the  inn.  This  kneeling \nand  praying  of  his  before  the  crucifix  had  been \n\n\n104  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nseen  by  a  little  girl,  a  child  of  seven  years  old. \nNow,  the  night  following,  there  came  thieves  to \nthe  image,  and  they  broke  open  the  doors,  and \nstole  all  the  wax  which  they  found  there.  As \nsoon  as  it  was  day,  the  news  came  into  the \ntown,  and  was  carried  to  the  citizen  who  had \nthe  charge  of  the  image.  He  inquired  into  the \nmatter,  in  order  to  discover  who  had  committed \nthis  great  robbery.  Upon  which,  the  above- \nmentioned  child  said  that  she  knew  well  who \nhad  done  it.  And  when  she  was  pressed  to \nmake  it  known,  and  to  point  out  the  villain,  she \nsaid : — No  one  is  guilty  of  the  crime  except  the \nbrother,  meaning  by  this  the  Servitor ;  for,  she \nadded : — I  saw  him  yesterday  kneel  before  the \nimage,  and  then  go  into  the  town. \n\nThe  citizen  took  these  words  of  the  child  as \ntruth,  and  repeated  them  on  all  sides,  so  that \nthe  calumny  concerning  the  brother  spread \nthrough  the  town,  and  he  was  charged  with  the \ncrime  on  these  slight  grounds;  and  many  an \nevil  judgment  was  passed  upon  him,  how  that \nhe  ought  to  be  killed,  and,  as  a  wicked  man,  to \nbe  put  out  of  the  world. \n\nWhen  the  Servitor  heard  all  this,  he  was \nfilled  with  consternation,  though  he  well  knew \nthat  he  was  guiltless,  and,  with  a  deep  groan,  he \n\n\nFALSE  ACCUSATIONS.  105 \n\nsaid  to  God : — Alas,  Lord !  since  it  is  my  lot  to \nsuffer,  and  I  must  needs  suffer,  if  Thou  wouldst \nbut  give  me  ordinary  sufferings,  such  as  would \nnot  bring  me  to  disgrace,  I  would  bear  them \njoyfully;  but  by  destroying  my  good  name \nThou  dost  strike  me  to  the  heart  in  those  things \nwhich  of  all  others  are  the  sorest  to  me.  He \nremained  in  this  town  until  the  people  ceased \nto  talk  about  it. \n\nIt  came  to  pass,  in  another  town,  that  there \narose  a  great  outcry  concerning  him,  so  that  the \nwhole  town  and  neighbourhood  was  full  of  it. \nThere  was  a  monastery  in  this  town,  in  which \nthere  was  a  stone  crucifix,  of  the  exact  size,  it \nwas  said,  of  Christ  Himself.  Now,  one  day  dur- \ning Lent,  fresh  blood  was  observed  on  the  cru- \ncifix, just  beneath  the  wound  on  the  side.  The \nServitor  ran  thither  with  the  others  to  behold \nthe  wonder,  and  when  he  saw  the  blood,  he \nwent  up  and  received  it  on  his  finger,  in  the \nsight  of  all  who  stood  around.  The  concourse \nof  people  from  every  part  of  the  town  soon  be- \ncame very  great,  and  they  forced  him  to  stand \nforward  before  them  all,  and  relate  what  he \nhad  seen  and  touched.  He  did  this,  adding \nat  the  same  time  the  caution,  that  he  pronoun- \nced no  judgment   about  the  matter,  whether \n\n\n106  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENEY  SUSO. \n\nit  was  from  God  or  man,  but  that  lie  left  this  to \nothers. \n\nThis  story  resounded  far  and  wide  through \nthe  country,  and  each  person  added  to  it  what \nhe  pleased,  and  it  was  given  out  that  the  Servi- \ntor had  pricked  himself  in  the  finger  and  rubbed \nthe  blood  upon  the  crucifix,  in  order  that  it  might \nbe  supposed  that  the  crucifix  had  bled  of  itself, \nand  that  he  had  devised  this  through  covetous- \nness,  with  a  view  to  draw  a  crowd  of  people \nthither,  that  he  might  plunder  them  of  their \nproperty.  The  same  evil  report  was  spread \nabroad  about  him  in  other  towns  also. \n\nAs  soon  as  the  citizens  of  the  town  heard \nthis  calumnious  tale,  there  was  nothing  left  for \nhim  but  to  escape  by  night  out  of  the  place,  and \nthey  pursued  him,  and  would  have  killed  him, \nif  he  had  not  got  away.  They  even  offered  a \nlarge  sum  of  money  to  whoever  would  bring \nhim  in  alive  or  dead.  Evil  rumours  of  this \nkind  were  circulated  in  abundance  concerning \nhim;  and  wherever  these  tales  reached,  they \nwere  received  as  truth,  and  his  name  was  greeted \nwith  many  revilings  and  curses,  and  many  an \nunjust  judgment  was  passed  upon  him.  Some \npersons,  indeed,  who  knew  him,  were  more \nreasonable ;  but,  if  they  ventured  to  assert  his \n\n\nFALSE  ACCUSATIONS.  107 \n\ninnocence,  they  were  so  savagely  put  down,  that \nthey  were  forced  to  hold  their  peace,  and  let  him \nperish  in  the  world's  esteem. \n\nAn  honourable  lady,  a  citizen  of  the  town, \nwhen  she  heard  all  the  marvellous  sufferings \nwhich  the  poor  innocent  man  had  undergone, \ncame  to  him  out  of  compassion,  in  the  midst  of \nhis  distress,  and  advised  him  to  procure  from \nthe  town  a  sealed  testimonial  of  his  guiltless- \nness, that  he  might  take  it  with  him  wherever \nhe  went,  for  every  one  in  the  town  knew  well \nthat  he  was  innocent.  He  replied : — Ah,  dear \nlady !  if  this  were  my  only  suffering,  and  if  it \nwere  God's  intention  to  lay  no  other  affliction \nupon  me  but  this,  I  would  apply  for  the  testi- \nmonial ;  but  as  things  are,  so  much  suffering  of \nthis  kind  falls  to  my  lot  every  day,  that  I  must \nleave  it  to  God  and  bear  it. \n\nAt  another  time  he  set  forth  on  a  journey  to \nthe  Netherlands,  to  be  present  at  a  chapter,  and \nhe  found  sufferings  ready  waiting  for  him  on \nhis  arrival,  for  there  came  thither  to  attack  him \ntwo  persons  of  high  position  in  the  Order,  who \nwere  very  active  in  their  endeavours  to  bring \nhim  into  great  trouble.  With  quaking  heart, \nhe  was  put  upon  his  trial,  and  many  things  were \nlaid  to  his  charge,  among  which  was  the  follow- \n\n\n108  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ning : — They  said  that  he  had  written  books  con- \ntaining false  doctrine,  wliich  had  defiled  the \nwhole  country  with  heretical  filth.  In  conse- \nquence, he  was  harshly  and  severely  repri- \nmanded, and  he  was  threatened  with  heavy \npunishment,  though  God  and  the  world  knew \nthat  he  was  guiltless  in  the  matter. \n\nThese  crushing  trials  did  not  satisfy  God,  but \nHe  made  their  number  still  greater.  He  sent \nthe  Servitor  a  sickness  on  his  journey  home,  and \ncaused  him  to  be  attacked  by  a  violent  fever. \nBesides  this,  a  dangerous  abscess  gathered  in- \nwardly, close  to  his  heart;  so  that,  what  with \ninterior  anguish  and  outward  sufferings,  he  came \nso  near  to  death  that  his  companion  often  looked \nat  him  to  see  whether  the  moment  had  not  come \nfor  his  soul  to  take  its  departure. \n\nAs  he  lay  thus  utterly  wretched  in  a \nstrange  convent  in  bed,  and  could  not  sleep  at \nnight  from  the  straits  to  which  his  grievous \nsickness  had  reduced  him,  he  began  to  enter \ninto  account  with  God  in  this  wise: — Woe  is \nme,  O  just  God,  that  Thou  hast  so  exceedingly \noverburthened  my  sick  frame  with  bitter  suffer- \ning, and  wounded  my  heart  through  and  through \nwith  the  great  dishonour  and  shame  that  has \nbeen  done  me,  and  that  I  am  thus  encompassed \n\n\nFALSE  ACCUSATIONS.  1091 \n\nwith  bitter  anguish  from  without  and  from  with- \nin !  When  wilt  Thou  cease  afflicting  me,  O \ngentle  Father  !  When  wilt  thou  deem  it  enough  ? \nThen  he  set  before  his  mind  the  death-agony \nwhich  Christ  endured  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,, \nand  while  contemplating  this,  he  crawled  from \nhis  bed  to  the  bench  which  stood  beside  it,  for \nhe  could  not  bear  to  lie  down,  owing  to  the \nabscess. \n\nWhile  he  sat  thus  in  miser)7-,  it  seemed  to- \nhim  in  a  vision  that  there  came  into  the  cham- \nber a  great  company  of  the  heavenly  host  to \ncomfort  him,  and  that  they  began  to  sing  one  of \nthe  songs  of  heaven,  which  rang  so  sweetly  in \nhis  ears  that  his  whole  being  was  transformed \nby  it.  As  they  sang  thus  joyously,  and  the  sick \nServitor  sat  there  so  full  of  sorrow,  a  youth  came- \nto  him,  and  said  very  lovingly: — Wherefore  art \nthou  silent?  Why  singest  thou  not  with  us? \nAnd  yet  thou  knowest  right  well  the  song  of \nheaven.  The  Servitor,  with  a  sigh  from  his \nsorrowful  heart,  made  answer,  saying : — Alas  ! \nseest  thou  not  how  full  of  woe  I  am !  When \never  did  a  dying  man  rejoice?  Do  you  want \nme  to  sing  ?  I  am  singing  now  the  wail  of  suf- \nfering. If  I  have  ever  sung  joyously,  that  is  all \nover  now,  for  I  am  waiting  only  for  the  hour  of \n\n\n110  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmy  death.  To  this  the  youth  replied  right  joy- \nfully : — \"  Viriliter  age.\"  Be  of  good  cheer.  Be \njoyous.  Nothing  of  this  kind  shall  befall  thee. \nThou  shalt  yet  sing  in  thy  lifetime  such  a  song \nthat  God  in  His  eternity  shall  be  glorified, \nand  many  a  sufferer  consoled  by  it.  Upon \nthis,  his  eyes  ran  over,  and  he  burst  into  tears, \nand  at  the  same  instant  the  abscess  within  him \nbroke,  and  departed  from  him,  and  he  was  re- \nstored to  health  upon  the  spot. \n\nAfterwards,  when  he  reached  home,  there \ncame  to  him  a  blessed  friend  of  God,  saying : — \nDear  sir,  though  it  is  true  that  on  this  jour- \nney you  were  more  than  a  hundred  miles  away \nfrom  me,  nevertheless,  what  you  suffered  during \nit  was  quite  present  to  me.  I  saw  one  day  with \nmy  soul's  eyes  the  Divine  Judge  sitting  upon \nHis  throne,  and,  by  His  permission,  two  evil \nspirits  were  let  loose,  who  persecuted  you  by \nmeans  of  the  two  prelates  who  caused  your  suf- \nferings. Then  I  cried  to  God,  saying: — Alas, \ngentle  God !  how  canst  Thou  bear  to  let  Thy \nfriend  be  in  such  great  and  bitter  suffering! \nUpon  which  God  answered  me  in  this  wise : — \nIt  is  for  this  end  that  I  have  chosen  him  for \nMyself,  that  by  means  of  these  sufferings  he \nmay  be  fashioned  after  the  image  of  My  only- \n\n\nHIS  SISTER.  Ill \n\n\"begotten  Son.  Nevertheless,  My  justice  must \navenge  the  great  wrong  that  has  been  done  him, \nby  the  speedy  death  of  the  two  who  have  tor- \nmented him.  This  came  to  pass  in  very  truth \nsoon  afterwards,  and  in  such  a  way  that  many \npersons  became  aware  of  it. \n\n\nChapter  XXVI. \n\nOf  the  great  suffering  which  befell  him  through  his  sister. \n\nThe  Servitor  had  a  sister  who  was  under \nthe  obedience  of  the  religious  life.  Now,  it \nhappened  that,  while  the  brother  was  living \nelsewhere,  she  began  to  throw  aside  restraint \nand  attach  herself  to  evil  company.  On  one \noccasion,  when  she  had  gone  out  with  these \ncompanions,  she  went  astray  and  fell  into  sin, \nand  then,  through  grief  and  wretchedness  at \nwhat  had  befallen  her,  left  her  convent,  and \nran  away  he  knew  not  whither. \n\nWhen  he  returned  home,  the  miserable  tale \nwas  being  whispered  about,  and  some  one  came \nand  told  him  what  had  taken  place.  On  hearing \nit,  he  became  like  a  stone  from  sorrow,  and  his \nheart  died  within  him,  and  he  went  about  like \none  out  of  his  mind.     He  asked  where  she  was, \n\n\n112  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nbut  no  one  could  tell  him  where.  Then  the \nthought  came  to  him : — A  new  suffering  is  quite \nright,  but  that  it  should  be  here!  Well!  lose \nnot  heart.  See  whether  thou  mayst  not  be  able \nto  bring  back  again  the  poor  ruined  soul,  and \noffer  at  once  the  sacrifice  of  thy  worldly  honour \nto  the  merciful  God.  Cast  aside  all  human \nshame,  and  spring  into  the  deep  gulf  to  her  and \nlift  her  up. \n\nWhen  the  brothers  stood  in  the  choir  at \noffice,  and  he  had  to  pass  up  through  the  choir, \nall  his  colour  left  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  his  hair \nwas  standing  on  end.  He  had  not  courage  to \ngo  up  to  any  one,  for  all  were  ashamed  of  him, \nand  those  who  had  formerly  been  his  compa- \nnions fled  from  him.  If  he  sought  counsel  of \nhis  friends,  they  turned  away  their  faces  -  from \nhim  contemptuously.  Then  he  called  to  mind \npoor  Job,  and  said : — Weil !  the  compassionate \nGod  must  needs  comfort  me,  since  I  am  aban- \ndoned by  all  the  world. \n\nHe  inquired  on  all  sides  whither  he  should \ngo,  that  he  might  bring  speedy  help  to  the  for- \nsaken soul.  At  last  he  was  directed  to  a  certain \nplace,  and  he  set  out  for  it.  It  was  St.  Agnes's \nDay,  and  the  weather  was  cold,  and  there  had \nbeen  a  pouring  rain  throughout  the  night,  so \n\n\nHIS  SISTEK.  113 \n\nthat  the  brooks  were  much  swollen.  On  trying \nto  jump  over  a  brook,  he  fell  into  it  from  weak- \nness. He  got  up  as  soon  as  he  could,  but  his \ninward  distress  was  so  excessive  that  he  heeded \nlittle  this  outward  mishap.  After  he  had  gone \nsome  distance  further,  his  sister  was  pointed  out \nto  him  in  a  small  cottage.  He  went  up  to  it  in \nanguish  of  soul,  and  going  in,  found  her  there. \nAs  soon  as  he  saw  her,  he  sank  down  upon  the \nbench  on  which  she  was  sitting,  and  twice  his \nsenses  left  him.  When  he  came  to  himself \nagain,  he  began  to  cry  aloud  piteously,  and  to \nlament  and  weep  and  beat  his  hands  toge- \nther above  his  head,  saying: — Alas,  my  God, \nhow  hast  Thou  forsaken  me !  Then  his  eyes \nfailed  him,  and  his  mouth  became  fixed,  and  his \nhands  stiffened,  and  he  lay  thus  unconscious  for \na  while  in  a  faint.  But  as  soon  as  he  came  to \nhimself  again,  he  took  his  sister  into  his  arms, \nand  said : — Alas,  my  child !  Alas,  my  sister  ! \nWhat  have  I  lived  to  see  in  thee  ?  Alas,  gentle \nmaiden,  Saint  Agnes,  how  bitter  has  thy  feast- \nday  become  to  me !  And  then  he  sank  down \nagain,  and  his  senses  left  him. \n\nUpon  this,  his  sick  sister  stood  up  and  fell  at \nhis  feet,  with  great  and  bitter  tears,  and  in  a \nI \n\n\n114  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENEY  SUSO. \n\nvoice  of  lamentation  addressed  him  thus : — Alas, \nmy  lord  and  father !  what  a  sad  day  was  that \nwhich  brought  me  into  the  world,  since  I  have \nlost  God  and  caused  you  such  great  suffering. \nAlas,  true  brother  and  rescuer  of  my  lost  soul ! \nthough  I  am  not  worthy  that  you  should  speak \nto  me  or  answer  me,  still  take  me  to  your  true \nheart,  and  call  to  mind  that  in  nothing  can  you \nbe  more  true  to  God  and  act  more  like  Him \nthan  in  what  you  do  for  a  cast-away  sinner  and \nan  overburdened  heart.  Since  God  has  made \nyou  full  of  pity  for  all  pitiable  things,  how  will \nyou  refuse  to  pity  me,  a  poor  cast-away  sinner, \nwho  am  become  an  object  of  pity  to  God  and \nall  the  world,  now  that  my  grievous  sin  has  so \nspeedily  and  thoughtlessly  made  me  vile  in  the \neyes  of  every  one?  What  all  reject  and  dis- \ndain, you  seek  out.  When  all  are  justly  ashamed \nof  me,  you  go  openly  to  the  cause  of  your  suf- \nfering and  disgrace,  and  seek  me  out.  Oh!  I \nbeseech  you  with  an  anguish  of  heart  which \nknows  no  rest,  prostrate  and  bowed  clown  be- \nneath your  feet,  reverence  God  in  me,  poor \nfallen  sinner,  and  forgive  me  altogether  this \ncrime  and  wrong  which  I  have  done  you,  to  the \nhurt  of  my  poor  soul.    Call  to  mind,  I  pray  you, \n\n\nHIS  SISTER.  115 \n\nthat  if  in  this  world  I  have  lessened  your  honour \nand  harmed  your  person  and  life,  you  will  receive \ninstead  singular  honour  and  consolation  in  eter- \nnity ;  and  refuse  not  to  pity  me,  for  I  am  the \npoor  maid  who  has  fallen  into  the  snare,  and  I \nmust  bear  this  loss  in  time  and  eternity  in  heart \nand  soul  for  evermore,  and,  besides  all,  be  a \nburden  to  myself  and  every  one.  Oh !  let  me \nthen  be  your  poor  needy  child  in  this  world  and \nthe  next.  Nothing  higher  does  my  heart  desire \nthan  that  I  may  have  no  longer  the  right  to  be, \nor  to  be  called,  your  sister.  Only  let  me  in  pity \nbe  your  lost  sister,  and  by  right  your  found  and \nwell-earned  needy  one.  This  comes  so  truly \nfrom  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart,  that  when  any \none  calls  me  your  sister,  or  points  me  out  as \nsuch,  it  is  a  peculiar  bitterness  to  my  heart ;  and \nI  pity  you  when  you  are  where  you  see  me  in \nyour  presence  and  must  needs  suffer  from  it,  for \nI  know  that  you  cannot  help  suffering  all  the \nshame  which  a  heart  naturally  feels  at  such \ntimes.  Any  thing  further  in  common  between \nus  there  neither  ought  to  be  henceforth,  nor  do \nI  desire  it,  for  your  eyes  and  ears  must  be  filled \nwith  shame  and  horror  at  me.  All  these  pain- \nful things  I  will  endure,  and  offer  them  up  to \nGod  for  my  shameful  sin,  in  the  hope  that  you \n\n\n116  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENEY  SUSO. \n\nwill  mercifully  pity  me,  poor  sinner,  and  faith- \nfully satisfy  for  me,  and  help  my  poor  soul  to \nfind  grace  again  before  God. \n\nWhen  the  brother  came  to  himself  again,  he \nanswered  her  sorrowful  lament  in  this  wise : — \nAlas,  ye  hot  tears,  burst  forth  from  a  full  heart \nwhich  can  no  longer  contain  itself  for  anguish ! \nAlas,  my  child !  thou,  my  heart  and  soul's  only \njoy  from  my  childhood  up,  in  whom  I  had \ndreamed  to  find  joy  and  comfort  throughout \nlife,  come  hither  and  let  me  press  thee  to  this \ndead  heart  of  thy  wretched  brother.  Let  me \nwater  my  dear  sister's  face  with  the  bitter  tears \nof  my  eyes.  Let  me  wail  and  weep  over  my \ndead  child.  Oh,  a  thousand  deaths  of  the \nbody,  how  slight  a  woe !  Oh,  the  death  of  the \nsoul  and  of  honour,  how  great  a  woe  !  Oh,  sor- \nrow and  sufferings  of  my  wretched  heart !  O \nGod,  merciful  God,  what  have  I  lived  to  see! \nO  my  child !  come  hither  to  me.  Since  I  have \nfound  my  child,  I  will  weep  and  lament  no  more ; \nand  I  will  receive  thee  to-day  with  the  same \ngrace  and  pity  with  which  I  pray  the  merciful \nGod  to  receive  me,  a  sinful  creature,  at  my  de- \nparture; and  I  will  gladly  forgive  thee  alto- \ngether the  exceeding  pain  and  sorrow  which  I \nhave  suffered  through  thee,  and  must  go  on  suf- \n\n\nHIS  SISTEE.  117 \n\nfering  to  my  life's  end ;  and  I  will  help  thee \nwith  all  my  might  to  expiate  and  correct  thy \nsin  in  the  sight  of  God  and  of  the  world. \n\nAll  those  who  saw  and  heard  these  lamenta- \ntions of  the  two  were  so  moved  to  pity  thereby, \nthat  they  conld  none  of  them  restrain  them- \nselves, but  were  forced  to  weep.  Thus,  by  his \nsorrowful  bearing  and  his  loving  consolations, \nhe  so  softened  her,  that  she  became  willing  to \nreturn  at  once  to  religious  obedience. \n\nLater  on,  after  he  had  with  unspeakable \nshame,  and  great  toil  and  labour,  brought  back \nin  his  arms  to  the  merciful  God  this  lost  sheep, \nGod  so  ordered  it  that  she  was  received  into  a \nfar  more  satisfactory  place  than  where  she  was \nbefore.  And  her  earnestness  in  God's  service \nbecame  so  great,  and  her  holy  and  well-guarded \nmanner  of  life  showed  such  perseverance  in  all \nvirtues  until  her  death,  that  the  brother  was  well \nrepaid  in  the  sight  of  God  and  of  the  world  for \nall  the  pain  and  suffering  which  he  had  ever \nhad  on  her  account. \n\nWhen  the  true-hearted  brother  saw  that  his \naffliction  had  turned  out  so  exceeding  well,  it \ngave  him  pleasure  and  joy,  and  he  called  to \nmind  how  God  secretly  orders  all  things  so \nthat  they  turn  to  good  for  the  good ;  and  then \n\n\n118  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhe  looked  up  to  God  with  great  thankfulness, \nand  his  heart  melted  within  him  in  praise  of \nGod. \n\n\nChapter  XXVLL \n\nOf  a  grievous  suffering  which  befell  him  through  a  com- \npanion. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  when  he  was  about  to \nset  forth  upon  a  journey,  there  was  assigned  to \nhim  for  his  companion  a  lay-brother  who  was  not \nquite  right  in  his  head.  He  received  this  bro- \nther very  reluctantly,  for  he  had  continually \nbefore  his  mind  the  sufferings  which  he  had \non  former  occasions  undergone  through  the  ill- \nbehaviour  of  his  companions.  Nevertheless,  he \nsubmitted  himself,  and  took  the  brother  with \nhim. \n\nNow,  it  so  happened  that  they  arrived  before \nbreakfast  at  a  village  in  which  an  annual  fair \nwas  being  held  on  that  day,  and  a  very  great \nnumber  of  people  of  all  sorts  were  collected \ntogether.  The  Servitor's  companion,  having \nbeen  wet  with  the  rain,  went  into  a  house  to  a \nfire,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  go  about \nwith  him  any  where,  adding  that  the  brother \nmust  do  whatever  he  had  to  do  without  him, \n\n\nCHARGE  OF  POISONING.  119 \n\nand  that  lie  would  wait  for  him  there.  The \nbrother  had  scarcely  left  the  house  when  his \ncompanion  rose  up,  and  seated  himself  at  table \nwith  a  set  of  rough  fellows  and  dealers  who  had \ntravelled  to  the  fair.  When  these  men  per- \nceived that  the  wine  had  got  well  into  his  head, \nand  he  had  left  the  table,  and  was  standing \nunder  the  yard-door  gaping  about  him,  they \nset  upon  him,  saying  that  he  had  stolen  a \ncheese  from  them.  Now  at  that  very  moment, \nwhen  these  wicked  people  were  treating  him  in \nthis  cruel  manner,  there  came  up  four  or  five \ngood-for-nothing  soldiers,  who  also  fell  upon \nhim,  exclaiming  that  the  scoundrel  monk  was \na  poisoner ;  for  it  was  just  then  that  there  was \nthe  outcry  about  poisoning.  Upon  this,  they \nlaid  hold  of  him,  and  made  a  great  uproar,  so \nthat  there  was  a  general  rush  to  the  place. \n\nWhen  the  lay -brother  saw  what  course \nthings  had  taken,  and  that  he  was  a  prisoner, \nhe  wished  very  much  to  get  free,  and,  turning \nround,  he  said  to  them:  —  Stop  a  moment. \nOnly  stand  still  and  let  me  speak,  and  I  will \nconfess  it  all  to  you,  and  tell  you  how  things  are. \nThey  stood  still,  and  every  body  listened ;  upon \nwhich,  he  began  thus : — Look  at  me  now ;  you \ncannot  help  seeing  that  I  am  a  fool  and  a  wit* \n\n\n120  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nless  man,  and  no  one  makes  any  account  of  me ; \nbut  my  companion  is  a  man  of  consummate \nwisdom,  and  the  Order  has  intrusted  him  with \nlittle  bags  of  poison  to  throw  into  the  wells \nbetween  this  place  and  Alsace,  whither  he  is \nnow  journeying ;  and  his  intention  is  to  defile \nevery  place  to  which  he  comes  with  vile  poison. \nBut  see  that  you  make  haste  and  seize  him,  or \nhe  will  have  done  a  murderous  deed  which  can \nnever  be  healed ;  for  he  has  just  now  taken  out \na  little  bag  of  poison  and  cast  it  into  the  village \nwell,  that  all  those  who  have  come  here  to  the \nfair  and  shall  drink  of  the  well  may  die  without \nfail.  This  is  why  I  stayed  behind,  and  would \nnot  go  out  with  him,  for  it  is  a  great  grief  to \nme.  And  as  a  voucher  that  I  speak  the  truth, \nyou  must  know  that  he  has  a  great  bag  for \nbooks,  full  of  little  bags  of  poison  and  a  quantity \nof  florins,  which  he  and  the  Order  have  received \nfrom  the  Jews  for  carrying  out  this  murderous \ndesign. \n\nWhen  the  wild  crew,  and  all  those  who  had \nforced  their  way  into  the  house,  heard  these \nwords,  they  became  mad  with  rage,  and  with \nloud  yells  they  shouted  out: — Quick  after  the \nmurderer,  that  he  escape  us  not!  And  one \nseized  a  pike,  and  another  a  battle-axe,  each \n\n\nCHARGE  OF  POISONING.  121 \n\none  taking  what  he  could,  and  they  rushed \nabout  in  a  state  of  frenzy,  forcing  open  the \nhouses  and  the  closets,  where  they  fancied  they \nmight  find  him,  and  stabbing  with  their  naked \nswords  through  the  beds  and  the  straw,  until \nthe  whole  fair  ran  together,  on  account  of  the \nuproar. \n\nAmong  the  crowd  there  were  strangers \nfrom  other  districts,  honourable  men,  who  knew \nthe  Servitor  well,  when  they  heard  his  name. \nThese  persons  came  forward  and  told  the  others \nthat  they  were  wronging  him,  for  that  he  was  a \nvery  pious  man,  who  would  be  very  sorry  to \ncommit  such  a  crime.  At  length,  as  they  could \nnot  find  him,  they  gave  over  the  search,  and \ncarried  his  companion  as  a  prisoner  to  the \nvillage  magistrate,  who  ordered  him  to  be  shut \nup  in  a  cell. \n\nThe  Servitor  knew  nothing  of  all  this \ntrouble;  but  when  he  thought  the  time  for \nbreakfast  had  come,  and  that  his  companion \nhad  quite  dried  himself  at  the  fire,  he  set  out \nfor  the  inn,  intending  to  breakfast  there.  When \nhe  reached  the  inn,  they  began  to  tell  him  the \nsad  news,  and  related  to  him  all  that  had  hap- \npened. Upon  which,  he  ran  straightway  in \nterror  to  the  house  where  the  magistrate  and \n\n\n122  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhis  companion  were,  and  besought  the  magis- \ntrate to  release  him.  The  magistrate  replied \nthat  this  could  not  be,  for  that  he  intended  to \nconfine  him  in  a  tower  as  a  punishment  for  his \noffence.  This  seemed  hard  and  unbearable  to \nthe  Servitor,  and  he  ran  hither  and  thither \nseeking  help ;  but  he  could  find  no  one  to  aid \nhim  in  this  matter.  After  he  had  busied  him- \nself in  this  way  for  a  long  time,  he  at  length, \nwith  much  shame  and  bitterness,  obtained  his \ncompanion's  release,  though  at  great  cost  to \nhimself. \n\nHe  now  fancied  that  his  sufferings  were  at \nan  end;  but  they  were  only  just  beginning. \nFor  he  had  no  sooner  got  free  from  the  authori- \nties with  trouble  and  loss,  than  his  life  was  ex- \nposed to  imminent  danger.  When  he  left  the \nmagistrate,  about  vesper-time,  a  cry  was  raised \namong  the  common  people  and  the  mob  that  a \npoisoner  was  there ;  and  they  yelled  at  him  as \nat  a  murderer,  so  that  he  dared  not  pass  along \nin  front  of  the  village.  They  pointed  at  him, \nsaying: — That  is  the  poisoner.  He  shall  not \nescape  us.  He  must  be  killed.  We  will  not \nlet  him  off  for  money,  like  the  magistrate. \nWhen  he  tried  to  escape  by  slipping  away  into \nthe  village,  they  yelled  still  more  fiercely  after \n\n\nCHARGE  OF  POISONING.  123 \n\nhim.  Some  of  them  said: — We  ought  to \ndrown  him  in  the  Ehine;  which  ran  past  the \nvillage.  The  others  answered: — No;  the  filthy \nmurderer  will  defile  all  the  water:  we  should \nburn  him.  A  huge  peasant,  in  a  sooty  jerkin, \nsnatched  up  a  pike,  and,  forcing  his  way \nthrough  to  the  front,  cried  out: — Hear  me, \nmy  masters,  all  of  you.  There  is  no  more \nshameful  death  to  which  we  can  put  this  heretic \nthan  if  I  run  him  through  with  this  long  pike, \njust  as  we  spit  a  poisonous  toad.  Even  so  in \nlike  manner  let  me  spit  this  poisoner  naked \non  this  pike,  and  then  lift  him  up  backwards, \nand  drive  him  so  firmly  into  this  stout  fence \nthat  he  will  not  be  able  to  fall  off.  There  let \nhis  foul  carcass  be  dried  by  the  winds,  that  all \nwho  go  by  may  have  a  view  of  the  murderer, \nand  curse  him  after  his  vile  death ;  that  so  his \nmisery  may  be  the  greater  in  this  world  and \nthe  next,  for  richly  has  this  utter  miscreant \ndeserved  this  fate. \n\nThe  Servitor  heard  these  words  with  such \nterror  that  he  groaned  deeply,  and  the  great \ntears  rolled  down  his  face  from  anguish. \n\nAll  those  who  stood  round  the  ring  and  saw \nhim  wept  bitterly ;  and  some  beat  their  breasts \nthrough  pity,  and  struck  their  hands  together \n\n\n124  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nabove  their  heads ;  but  no  one  dared  to  say  any- \nthing in  presence  of  the  infuriated  people,  for \nthey  were  afraid  of  being  attacked  themselves. \n\nWhen  night  began  to  fall,  he  went  up  and \ndown  with  weeping  eyes  entreating  that  some \none,  for  God's  sake,  would  pity  him  and  give \nhim  shelter;  but  they  repulsed  him  cruelly. \nSome  kind-hearted  women  would  have  gladly \ntaken  him  in,  but  they  dared  riot.  At  length, \nwhen  the  wretched  sufferer  was  thus  in  the \nstraits  of  death,  and  all  help  from  man  had \nfailed  him,  and  they  were  only  waiting  for  the \nmoment  to  fall  upon  him  and  kill  him,  he \nsunk  down  beside  a  fence  through  anguish  and \nfear  of  death,  and,  lifting  up  his  miserable  and \nswollen  eyes  to  the  heavenly  Father,  exclaimed: \n— O  Father  of  all  pity,  when  wilt  Thou  bring \nme  help  to-day  in  my  great  need?  O  kind \nheart,  how  hast  Thou  forgotten  Thy  great \nkindness  towards  me  ?  \"  O  Father,  O  time, \nkind  Father,  help  me,  poor  wretch,  in  these \ngreat  straits !  I  cannot  resolve  in  my  heart, \nwhich  is  already  dead,  whether  it  be  more  toler- \nable for  me  to  be  drowned,  or  to  be  burned,  or \nto  die  upon  a  pike,  for  one  of  these  deaths  must \nnow  be  mine.  I  commend  my  wretched  spirit \nto  Thee  to-day,  and  I  pray  Thee  to  show  me \n\n\nA  MURDERER.  125 \n\npity  in  my  miserable  death,  for  they  are  nigh \nunto  me  who  are  resolved  to  kill  me. \n\nThis  sorrowful  plaint  was  overheard  by  a \npriest,  who,  running  thither,  snatched  him  by \nforce  out  of  their  hands,  and  brought  him  home \ninto  his  house ;  and,  after  keeping  him  during \nthe  night,  that  nothing  might  happen  to  him, \nset  him  on  his  way  next  morning  early,  safe  out \nof  all  his  troubles. \n\n\nChapter  XXVIII. \n\nOf  a  murderer. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  when  the  Servitor  was \nreturning  from  the  Netherlands,  his  road  lay \nup  the  Rhine.  He  had  with  him  a  companion \nwho  was  young,  and  a  good  walker.  Now,  it \nhappened  one  day  that  he  could  not  keep  up \nwith  his  swift  companion,  for  he  had  become \nvery  tired  and  ill,  and  in  consequence  the  com- \npanion had  gone  ahead  of  him  about  half-a- \nmile.*  The  Servitor  looked  back  to  see  if  any \none  was  following  in  whose  company  he  might \n\n*  A  German  mile  is  about  four  English  miles  and  a \nhalf. \n\n\n126  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ngo  through  the  forest,  at  the  skirts  of  which  he \nhad  arrived,  for  it  was  late  in  the  day.  The \nforest,  moreover,  was  extensive,  and  of  ill  re- \npute, for  many  persons  had  been  murdered  in \nit.  The  Servitor  therefore  stopped  at  the  out- \nskirts of  the  forest,  and  waited  to  see  whether \nany  one  was  coming. \n\nAt  length  two  persons  approached,  at  a  very \nrapid  pace;  the  one  was  a  young  and  pretty \nwoman,  the  other  a  tall  ferocious-looking  man, \ncarrying  a  spear  and  a  long  knife,  and  he  had \non  a  black  jerkin.  The  Servitor  was  struck \nwith  dread  at  the  terrible  appearance  of  the \nman,  and  he  looked  round  to  see  if  there  was \nany  one  following;  but  he  saw  no  one.  He \nthought  within  himself: — O  Lord!  what  land \nof  people  are  these  ?  How  am  I  to  go  through \nthis  great  forest,  and  how  will  it  fare  with  me  1 \nThen  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  his \nheart  and  ventured  it.  When  they  were  al- \nready deep  in  the  forest,  the  woman  came  for- \nward to  him,  and  asked  him  who  he  was  and \nwhat  was  his  name.  As  soon  as  he  had  told \nher  his  name,  she  answered : — Dear  sir,  I  know \nyou  well  by  name.  I  pray  you  to  hear  my \nconfession.  Then  she  began  to  confess,  saying: \nAlas,  worthy  sir !  it  is  with  sorrow  I  tell  you \n\n\nA  MUEDEEEE.  127 \n\nmy  sad  lot.  Do  you  see  the  man  who  follows \nus  ?  He  is  by  trade  a  murderer,  and  he  mur- \nders people  here  in  this  wood  and  elsewhere, \nand  takes  from  them  their  money  and  clothes. \nHe  never  spares  any  one.  He  has  deceived \nme,  and  carried  me  off  from  my  friends,  who \nare  persons  of  good  repute,  and  I  am  forced  to \nbe  his  wife. \n\nThe  Servitor  was  so  terrified  by  these  words \nthat  he  nearly  fainted,  and  he  cast  a  very  sorrow- \nful look  all  round  him,  if  haply  there  were  any \none  in  sight  or  hearing,  or  any  mode  of  escape. \nBut  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  or  heard  in  the \ndark  forest  coming  after  them,  except  the  mur- \nderer. Then  he  thought  within  himself: — If, \nweary  as  thou  art,  thou  triest  to  flee,  he  will \nsoon  overtake  and  kill  thee ;  and  if  thou  criest \nout,  no  one  will  hear  thee  in  this  wilderness, \nand  death  again  will  be  thy  lot.  He  looked \nupwards  very  wofully,  and  said : — O  my  God, \nwhat  is  to  become  of  me  to-day?  O  death,  how \nnigh  thou  art  to  me ! \n\nWhen  the  woman  had  finished  confessing, \nshe  went  back  to  the  murderer,  and  besought \nhim  privily,  saying: — Come  now,  dear  friend, \ngo  forward,  and  make  thy  confession  also;  for \nit  is  a  pious  belief  among  my  people  that  who- \n\n\n128  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HESTRY  SUSO. \n\never  confesses  to  him,  however  sinful  he  may  be, \nwill  never  be  abandoned  by  God.  Do  it,  then ; \nthat  God  may  help  thee,  for  His  sake,  at  thy \nlast  hour. \n\nWhile  the  two  were  thus  whispering  to  each \nother,  the  Servitor's  terror  knew  no  bounds,  and \nthe  thought  came  to  him : — Thou  art  betrayed ! \nThe  murderer  was  silent,  and  went  forward. \nNow,  when  the  poor  Servitor  saw  the  murderer \nadvancing  npon  him,  spear  in  hand,  his  whole \nframe  quivered  with  dread,  and  he  thought  with- \nin himself: — Alas,  now  thou  art  lost!  For  he \nknew  not  what  they  had  been  talking  about.  At \nthis  point  it  happened  that  the  Rhine  ran  close \nto  the  wood,  and  the  narrow  path  lay  along  the \nbank.  Moreover,  the  murderer  so  contrived  it \nthat  the  brother  was  forced  to  walk  on  the  side \nnext  the  water,  while  he  walked  next  the  wood. \nAs  the  Servitor  went  along  in  this  manner  with \ntrembling  heart,  the  murderer  began  to  confess, \nand  revealed  to  him  all  the  murders  and  crimes \nwhich  he  had  ever  committed.  Especially  he \nspoke  of  a  horrible  murder,  which  struck  terror \ninto  the  Servitor's  heart,  and  which  he  thus  de- \nscribed:— I  came  once  into  this  wood  to  rob \nand  murder,  as  I  have  done  to-day,  and  meet- \ning with  a  venerable  priest,  I  confessed  to  him, \n\n\nA  MURDERER.  129 \n\nwhile  lie  was  walking  beside  me  at  this  very- \nspot,  just  as  you  are  doing ;  and  when  the  con- \nfession was  over,  I  drew  forth  this  knife  and  ran \nhim  through  with  it,  and  then  thrust  him  from \nme  over  the  bank  into  the  Ehine. \n\nThese  words,  and  the  gestures  with  which \nthe  murderer  accompanied  them,  made  the  Ser- \nvitor turn  pale,  and  terrified  him  so  exceedingly \nthat  the  cold  sweat  of  death  ran  down  his  face \nupon  his  breast,  and  he  shook  with  fear,  and \nbecame  speechless,  and  all  his  senses  failed  him, \nand  he  kept  looking  every  moment  at  his  side, \nexpecting  that  the  same  knife  would  be  thrust \ninto  him,  and  that  he  would  then  be  pushed \nover  into  the  river.  Now  just  as  he  was  on  the \npoint  of  falling  down  through  agony  of  mind \nand  utter  inability  to  advance  a  step,  he  cast  an \nexceeding  piteous  look  all  round  him,  like  a  per- \nson longing  to  escape  death.  The  murderer's \ndamsel  caught  sight  of  his  woe-stricken  face, \nand  running  up  received  him  in  her  arms,  as  he \nwas  falling,  and  holding  him  fast,  said : — Good \nsir,  be  not  afraid.  He  will  not  kill  you.  The \nmurderer  added  : — Much  good  has  been  told  me \nconcerning  you,  and  you  shall  have  the  benefit \nof  it  to-day,  for  I  will  let  you  live.    Beg  of  God \n\nK \n\n\n130  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nto  help  and  favour  me,  a  poor  criminal,  at  my \nlast  hour,  for  your  sake. \n\nIn  the  mean  time  they  had  come  out  of  the \nforest,  and  the  Servitor's  companion  was  sitting \nthere  under  a  tree  waiting  for  him.  The  mur- \nderer and  his  partner  passed  on.  But  the  Ser- \nvitor, crawling  to  his  companion,  sank  down  on \nthe  ground,  while  his  heart  and  his  whole  body \ntrembled,  as  in  an  attack  of  ague,  and  he  lay \nthus  motionless  for  a  long  time.  At  length  on \nrecovering  himself,  he  rose  up  and  went  on  his \nway ;  and  he  besought  God  earnestly  and  with \ndeep  inward  sighings  for  the  murderer,  that  He \nwould  let  him  have  the  benefit  of  the  pious  con- \nfidence which  he  had  conceived  towards  the  Ser- \nvitor, and  not  suffer  him  to  be  damned  at  his \nlast  hour.  God  gave  the  Servitor  such  an  in- \nward assurance  of  this,  that  it  was  impossible \nfor  him  to  doubt  that  the  murderer  would  be \nsaved. \n\n\nChapter  XXIX. \n\nOf  perils  by  water. \nOn  one  occasion  when  he  had  travelled  to \nStrasburg,  according  to  his  custom,  and  was  on \n\n\nPERILS  BY  WATER.  131 \n\nhis  return  home,  he  fell  into  a  great  stream  of \nwater,  caused  by  an  overflow  of  the  Rhine,  and \nhe  had  with  him  the  new  little  book  which  he \nhad  just  finished,  and  with  which  the  foul  fiend \nwas  very  wrath.  As  he  was  being  swept  help- \nlessly along  by  the  current,  at  the  peril  of  his  life, \nthe  faithful  God  so  ordered  it,  that  at  that  very \nmoment  there  came  up  by  chance  from  Stras- \nburg  a  young  newly-made  Prussian  knight,  who \nventuring  into  the  turbid  and  raging  water  saved \nthe  Servitor  and  his  companion  from  a  miser- \nable death. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  he  set  forth  on  a  journey \nunder  obedience,  when  the  weather  was  cold; \nand  after  travelling  on  a  carriage  the  whole  day \nthrough  until  evening  without  food  in  the  cold \nwind  and  frosty  weather,  he  arrived  at  a  troubled \npiece  of  water,  which  was  deep  and  rapid,  owing \nto  the  great  quantity  of  rain  which  had  fallen. \nThe  man  who  drove  him  went  too  near  the  bank \nthrough  carelessness,  and  the  carriage  turning \nover,  the  brother  was  shot  out  of  it  and  fell  into \nthe  water  on  his  back.  The  carriage  fell  over \non  him,  so  that  he  could  not  turn  himself  in  the \nwater  either  to  this  side  or  to  that,  nor  yet  help \nhimself  at  all ;  and  in  this  state  he  and  the  car- \nriage floated  down  for  some  distance  towards  a \n\n\n132  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmill.  The  driver  and  others  ran  thither,  and \njumping  into  the  water  seized  hold  of  him,  and \ntried  their  best  to  draw  him  out ;  but  the  heavy \ncarnage  lay  upon  him  and  pressed  him  down. \nWhen  at  last  they,  succeeded  with  great  labour \nin  lifting  the  carriage  off  him,  they  drew  him \nout  to  land  dripping  wet,  and  he  had  not  been \nlong  out  of  the  water  before  his  clothes  froze \nupon  him  from  the  excessive  cold.  He  began  to \ntremble  with  cold,  so  that  his  teeth  chattered,  and \nin  this  miserable  plight  he  stood  still  for  a  long \ntime,  and  then  looking  up  to  God  exclaimed: \n— O  my  God,  what  am  I  to  do  !  what  course  am \nI  to  adopt  1  It  is  late  and  night  is  at  hand,  and \nif  there  is  no  town  or  village  near,  where  I  can \nwarm  and  refresh  myself,  I  must  die ;  and  what \na  wretched  kind  of  death  this  will  be !  He  looked \naround  on  all  sides,  until  at  last  he  espied  far \naway  upon  a  hill  a  very  small  hamlet.  He \ncrawled  thither,  all  wet  and  frozen  as  he  was, \nand  by  the  time  he  reached  it  night  had  set  in. \nHe  went  up  and  down  begging  for  shelter  in \nGod's  name ;'  but  he  was  driven  away  from  the \nhouses,  and  no  one  would  take  pity  on  him. \nThen  the  frost  and  fatigue  began  to  attack  Ins \nheart,  and  put  him  in  fear  for  his  life;  upon \nwhich  he  cried  with  a  loud  voice  to  God: — \n\n\nINTERVAL  OF  REST.  133 \n\nO  Lord !  O  Lord !  it  would  have  been  better \nhadst  Thou  let  me  be  drowned,  for  then  there \nwould  have  been  an  end  of  it,  instead  of  my \nbeing  frozen  to  death  in  this  street. \n\nThese  words  of  lamentation  were  overheard \nby  a  peasant,  who  had  before  this  driven  him \naway,  but  who  now  touched  with  compassion \ntook  him  in  his  arms  and  brought  him  into  his \nhouse,  where  he  spent  a  miserable  night. \n\n\nChapter  XXX. \n\nOf  a  short  interval  of  rest  which  God  once  granted  hiin. \n\nGod  had  accustomed  him  to  this,  that  as \nsoon  as  one  suffering  left  him  another  was \nready  at  hand  to  take  its  place;  and  in  this \nway  God  played  with  him  unintermittingly. \nOnce  only  He  allowed  him  an  interval  of  rest ; \nbut  it  did  not  last  long. \n\nDuring  this  season  of  inaction  he  came  to  a \nnunnery,  and,  being  asked  by  his  spiritual  chil- \ndren how  things  went  with  him,  he  replied : — \nI  fear  they  are  going  very  ill  with  me  at  pre- \nsent, and  for  this  reason.  It  is  now  four  weeks \nsince  any  one  has  attacked  me  in  my  person \n\n\n134  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nor  my  good  name,  quite  unlike  what  used  to \nhappen  to  me ;  so  that  I  fear  lest  God  has  for- \ngotten me.  Now  he  had  not  sat  long  with \nthem  at  the  grate  when  there  came  a  brother \nof  the  Order,  who  called  him  out,  and  said : — \nI  was  a  little  while  ago  at  a  castle,  and  the  lord \nof  it  asked  after  you,  where  you  were,  and  he \ndid  this  very  savagely.  And  then  he  lifted \nup  his  hands,  and  swore  before  every  one  that \nwherever  he  found  you,  he  would  run  a  sword \nthrough  you.  The  same  thing  was  also  done \nby  several  fierce  soldiers,  his  kinsmen,  and  they \nhave  been  searching  for  you  in  different  monas- \nteries round  about  in  order  to  execute  their  evil \ndesigns  upon  you.  Be  warned,  therefore,  and \ntake  care  of  yourself,  as  you  love  your  life. \n\nThe  Servitor  was  struck  with  terror  at  these \nwords,  and  said  to  the  brother: — I  should  be \nvery  glad  to  hear  what  I  have  done  to  de- \nserve the  penalty  of  death.  He  answered : — \nThe  lord  of  the  castle  has  been  told  that  you \nhave  misled  his  daughter,  as  well  as  many \nother  persons,  into  a  particular  kind  of  life,  to \nwhich  the  name  of  spirit  is  given,  and  that \nthose  who  follow  it  are  called  spirits;  and  he \nhas  been  assured  that  they  are  the  most  aban- \ndoned set  on  the  face  of  the  earth.     But  more \n\n\nHIS  LOVING  COMPLAINT  TO  GOD.         135 \n\nthan  this.  There  was  another  ferocious  man \nthere,  who  said  of  you : — He  has  robbed  me  of \na  dear  wife.  She  draws  her  veil  down  now, \nand  will  no  longer  look  at  me.  She  will  only \nlook  inwards.  He  is  the  cause  of  this,  and  he \nshall  pay  for  it. \n\nWhen  the  Senator  heard  this  tale,  he  re- \nplied:— Praised  be  God!  and  hastening  back \nimmediately  to  the  grate,  said  to  his  daughters : \n— Be  of  good  cheer,  my  children.  God  has \nbeen  mindful  of  me,  and  has  not  forgotten  me. \nThen  he  told  them  the  cruel  tale,  how  that  men \nwere  seeking  to  return  him  evil  for  the  good \nthat  he  had  done. \n\n\nChapter  XXXI. \n\nHow  he  once  entered  into  a  loving  account  with  God. \n\nDuring  this  season  of  the  Servitor's  suffer- \nings, and  in  the  places  where  he  then  lived,  if \nhe  sometimes  happened  to  go  into  the  infirmary \nto  give  a  little  refreshment  to  his  sick  body,  or \nif  he  sat  silent  at  table  according  to  his  cus- \ntom, he  was  sorely  tried  by  mocking  discourse \nand   unseemly   words  ;    and   this    at   first  was \n\n\n136  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\na  great  suffering  to  him,  and  made  him  feel \nsuch  pity  for  himself  that  the  hot  tears  would \noften  run  down  his  cheeks,  and  force  their  way \nwith  what  he  ate  or  drank  into  his  mouth.  At \nsuch  times  he  used  to  look  up  silently  to  God, \nand,  groaning  inwardly,  exclaim:  —  Alas,  O \nGod!  art  not  Thou  content  with  the  misery \nwhich  I  suffer  day  and  night  ?  Must  even  my \nscanty  food  at  table  be  mingled  with  great  per- \nsecutions? This  happened  to  him  oftentimes \nand  abundantly. \n\nOnce  on  leaving  table  he  could  restrain \nhimself  no  longer,  and,  going  into  his  place  of \nprivacy,  he  said  to  God : — Dear  God,  Lord  of \nthe  whole  world,  be  gentle  and  gracious  to  me, \npoor  man,  for  I  must  enter  into  account  with \nThee  to-day.  I  cannot  help  doing  it;  and \nthough  in  truth  Thou  owest  no  man  aught, \nand  art  bound  to  no  one  by  reason  of  Thy \nhigh  sovereignty,  nevertheless  it  well  beseems \nThy  infinite  goodness  graciously  to  suffer  a  full \nheart  to  seek  refreshment  in  Thee,  when  it  has \nno  one  else  to  whom  it  can  make  its  plaint  or \nwho  can  comfort  it.  O  Lord,  I  call  Thee  to \nwitness,  who  knowest  all  things,  that  from  my \nmother's  womb  all  my  life  through  I  have  had \na  tender  heart.     I  never  yet  saw  any  one  in \n\n\nHIS  LOVING  COMPLAINT  TO  GOD.         137 \n\npain  or  sadness  but  I  had  a  heartfelt  pity  for \nhim ;  and  I  never  willingly  gave  ear  to  talk \nwhich  would  grieve  any  one,  whether  behind \nhis  back  or  in  his  presence.  All  my  com- \npanions must  allow  that  it  has  been  seldom \nheard  of  me  that  I  ever  by  my  words  made \nworse  the  case  of  any  brother,  or  of  any  one \nelse,  either  to  the  prelate  or  to  others;  but  I \nmade  every  one's  case  better,  so  far  as  I  was \nable;  and  when  I  could  not  do  this,  I  was \nsilent,  or  I  fled  away  that  I  might  not  hear  it. \nOut  of  pity  I  showed  all  the  more  friendship \ntowards  those  who  were  wounded  in  their \nhonour,  that  they  might  more  easily  recover \ntheir  good  repute.  I  was  called  the  faithful \nfather  of  the  poor.  I  was  a  special  friend  of \nall  God's  friends.  All  who  ever  came  to  me \nin  sorrow,  or  aggrieved,  always  received  some \ngood  counsel  from  me,  which  made  them  leave \nme  joyful  and  consoled ;  for  I  wept  with  those \nwho  wept,  and  I  sorrowed  with  those  who  were \nin  sorrow,  until,  like  a  mother,  I  brought  them \nround  again.  No  one  ever  caused  me  any \nsuffering  however  great,  but  if  he  only  smiled \nkindly  on  me  afterwards,  it  was  all  past  and \nover  in  God's  name,  as  if  it  had  never  been. \nO  Lord,  I  will  say  no  more  about  mankind,  for \n\n\n138  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nI  could  not  even  see  or  hear  the  needs  and \nsorrows  of  all  the  little  birds  and  beasts  and \nother  creatures  of  God  without  being  pierced  to \nthe  heart  thereby,  and  I  used  to  pray  the  kind \nLord  of  all  to  help  them.  Whatever  lives  on \nearth  met  with  favour  and  tender  treatment \nfrom  me.  And  yet  Thou,  O  kind  Lord,  suf- \nferest  some,  of  whom  dear  Paul  speaks,  calling \nthem  false  brethren,  to  behave  to  me  so  exceed- \ning  cruelly,  as  Thou  knowest  well,  O  Lord,  and \nit  is  manifest  enough.  Alas,  kind  Lord !  look \nat  this,  and  console  me  for  it  with  Thyself. \n\nAfter  he  had  spent  a  long  time  in  thus  re- \nfreshing his  heart  with  God,  there  came  upon \nhim  a  stillness  of  repose,  and  he  was  inwardly \nilluminated  by  God  in  this  wise  : — The  childish \naccount  which  thou  hast  entered  into  with  Me \ncomes  from  this,  that  thou  dost  not  always  keep \nbefore  thee  the  words  and  ways  of  the  suffer- \ning Christ.  Thou  must  know  that  God  is  not \nsatisfied  with  the  mere  kindliness  of  heart \nwhich  thou  professest;  He  wants  still  more \nfrom  thee.  What  He  wants  is,  that  when  thou \nart  openly  ill-treated  by  any  one  in  words  or \nbehaviour,  thou  shalt  not  only  bear  it  patiently, \nbut  shalt  die  to  self  so  utterly  as  not  to  go  to \nsleep  that  night  until  thou  hast  sought  out  thy \n\n\nHIS  LOVING  COMPLAINT  TO  GOD.         139 \n\npersecutor,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  calmed  his \nincensed  heart  with  thy  sweet  words  and  ways ; \nfor  with  such  meek  lowliness  thou  wilt  take \nfrom  him  sword  and  knife,  and  make  him \npowerless  in  his  malevolence.  See,  this  is  the \nold  and  perfect  way  which  the  dear  Christ \ntaught  His  disciples,  when  He  said,  \"Behold, \nI  send  you  as  lambs  among  the  wolves\"  (Luke \nx.3). \n\nWhen  the  Servitor  came  to  himself  again, \nthis  perfect  way  seemed  to  him  too  burdensome, \nand  it  was  grievous  to  him  to  contemplate  it, \nand  still  more  grievous  to  follow  it.  Neverthe- \nless he  submitted  himself  thereto,  and  began  to \nlearn  it. \n\nNow  it  happened  one  day  after  this  that  a \nlay  brother  spoke  very  insolently  to  him,  and \nabused  him  openly.  The  Servitor  bore  it  pati- \nently in  silence,  and  he  would  gladly  have  let \nit  rest  there.  But  he  was  inwardly  admonished \nthat  he  must  do  something  better  than  this.  Ac- \ncordingly, when  it  became  evening,  and  the  bro- \nther was  eating  in  the  infirmary,  the  Servitor \nwent  and  stood  in  front  of  the  infirmary,  waiting \nfor  him  to  come  out.  As  soon  as  he  came  out, \nthe  Servitor  fell  on  his  knees  before  him,  and \naddressed  him  in  words  of  humble  entreaty : — \n\n\n140  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nI  pray  thee,  dear  worthy  father,  honour  God  in \nme,  poor  man,  and  if  I  have  troubled  you,  for- \ngive me,  for  God's  sake.  The  brother  stood \nstill,  and,  looking  up  in  amazement,  exclaimed, \nwith  a  loud  cry : — Ah  me !  what  a  marvellous \ntiling  you  are  doing!  and  yet  you  never  in- \njured me,  nor  any  one  else:  It  is  I  who  have \nopenly  outraged  you  by  my  villanous  words. \nYou  must  indeed  forgive  me,  I  entreat  you. \nIn  this  way  his  heart  was  stilled  and  restored \nto  peace. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  as  he  sat  at  table  in  the \nguest-house,  a  brother  insulted  him  with  scorn- \nful talk.  Upon  which  the  Servitor  turned  to- \nwards him  very  lovingly,  and  smiled  upon  him, \nas  though  he  had  just  received  a  precious  jewel \nfrom  him.  The  brother  was  so  moved  by  this, \nthat  he  became  silent,  and  turned  his  face  again \nin  kindliness  towards  the  Servitor.  When  the \nmeal  was  ended,  the  brother  spoke  of  it  in  the \ntown,  saying: — I  have  never  been  so  grossly \ninsulted  as  I  was  to-day  at  table ;  for,  after  I \nhad  treated  the  Senator  with  open  rudeness  at \ntable,  he  bowed  his  face  towards  me  so  very \nsweetly,  that  I  became  red  with  shame ;  and  it \nshall  always  be  a  good  lesson  to  me. \n\n\nHE  COMES  NIGH  TO  DEATH.  141 \n\nChapter  XXXII. \n\nHow  his  sufferings  once  brought  him  nigh  to  death. \n\nIt  happened  to  him  once  during  many \nnights,  that  the  moment  he  awoke  from  sleep \nsomething  began  to  repeat  in  him  the  psalm  of \nour  Lord's  sufferings,  \"Deus,  Deus  meus,  re- \nspice  in  me\"  (Ps.  xxi.).  This  psalm  was  spoken \nby  Christ  on  the  gallows  of  the  cross,  when  He \nwas  forsaken  in  His  distress  by  His  Heavenly \nFather  and  by  every  one.  The  Servitor  was \nstruck  with  consternation  at  this  continual  in- \nterior whispering  when  he  awoke,  and  weeping \nbitterly,  he  cried  to  Christ  upon  the  cross  in \nthese  words  : — Alas,  my  Lord  and  my  God !  if \nit  be  meet  and  necessary  that  I  should  once \nmore  suffer  a  new  crucifixion  with  Thee,  accom- \nplish, I  beseech  Thee,  Thy  pure  and  innocent \ndeath  in  me,  poor  man,  and  be  with  me,  and \nhelp  me  to  come  forth  victorious  over  all  my \nsufferings. \n\nWhen  this  cross  arrived,  as  had  been  fore- \nshown him,  sufferings  of  no  ordinary  kind,  and \nof  whose  nature  nothing  is  here  said,  began  to \nincrease  continually  upon  him,  and  to  multi- \nply from  day  to  day,  until  at  last  they  became \n\n\n142  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nso  great,  and  weighed  down  the  sick  man  so \nheavily,  that  they  brought  him  to  the  very  ex- \ntremity of  death.  One  evening  when  he  was \naway  from  the  monastery,  and  had  gone  to  his \nbed  to  rest,  there  fell  on  him  snch  an  utter  pro- \nstration of  strength,  that  he  thought  he  must \nnow  inevitably  die  of  faintness,  and  he  lay  there \nquite  motionless,  so  that  there  was  no  pulse  in \nany  of  his  veins.  When  this  was  observed  by  a \nfaithful  and  good-hearted  man  who  tended  him, \nand  whom  he  had  won  to  God  at  great  cost  to \nhimself,  the  man  ran  to  him  in  bitter  grief,  and \npressed  his  hand  against  his  heart,  to  try  whether \nthere  was  still  life  there.  But  his  heart  was \nwithout  movement,  and  beat  no  more  than  that \nof  a  dead  man  would.  At  this  he  sank  to  the \nground  in  great  sorrow,  and  while  the  tears \nstreamed  down  his  face,  he  cried  aloud  with \npiteous  lamentations :  —  O  God !  alas  for  this \nnoble  heart,  which  many  a  day  has  borne  Thee, \nO  merciful  God,  so  lovingly  within  it,  and  has \ntold  of  Thee  so  pleasantly  by  word  and  writing, \nin  every  land,  to  so  many  erring  men  for  their \nconsolation — how  has  it  perished  to-day!  O \nwhat  evil  tidings  is  it  that  this  noble  heart \nmust  rot,  and  cannot  live  a  long  time  yet  for \nThy  glory  and  the  consolation  of  many  !     Thus \n\n\nHE  COMES  NIGH  TO  DEATH.  143 \n\npiteously  lamenting  with  streaming  eyes,  he \nbent  over  the  Servitor  and  touched  his  heart \nand  mouth  and  arms,  to  see  whether  he  still \nlived  or  was  dead.  But  there  was  no  motion \nthere.  His  face  was  deadly  white,  his  mouth \nblack,  and  all  sign  of  life  had  vanished,  as  from \na  dead  man  laid  out  upon  his  bier.  This  lasted \nas  long  as  it  would  take  to  walk  a  mile.  Mean- \nwhile the  object  of  his  soul's  contemplation, \nwhile  he  lay  thus  in  seeming  death,  was  naught \nelse  but  God  and  the  Godhead,  the  True  and \nthe  Truth,  in  indwelling  everlasting  oneness.  It \nhappened,  indeed,  that  before  he  became  so  very \nweak,  and  was  carried  out  of  himself  in  ecstasy, \nhe  began  to  speak  in  his  heart  fond  words  to \nGod  in  this  wise : — Ah,  everlasting  Truth,  Thy \ndeep  abysses  are  hidden  from  every  creature. \nI,  Thy  poor  Servitor,  see  clearly  that  there  is \nnow  an  end  of  me,  as  my  departed  strength  be- \ntokens. I  speak  now  at  my  life's  verge  to  Thee, \nmighty  Lord,  whom  no  one  can  deceive,  because \nall  things  are  manifest  to  Thee.  Thou  alone \nknowest  how  things  stand  between  me  and  Thee. \nTherefore  I  seek  grace  of  Thee,  faithful  heavenly \nFather;  and  wheresoever,  alas,  I  have  broken  out \ninto  unlikeness  and  deflection  from  the  supreme \nTruth,  I  grieve  for  it,  and  repent  me  of  it  with \n\n\n144  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nall  my  heart,  and  I  beseech  Thee  to  blot  it  out \nwith  Thy  precious  Blood,  according  to  Thy  gra- \nciousness  and  my  necessity.  Kemember  that \nall  the  days  of  my  life  I  have  celebrated  and \nexalted  as  highly  as  I  could  Thy  pure  and  inno- \ncent Blood,  and  it  must  now  at  my  departure \nwash  me  clean  from  all  my  sins.  Oh,  kneel \ndown,  I  entreat  you,  all  ye  Saints,  especially \nthou,  my  kind  and  gracious  lord,  St.  Nicholas, \nand  lift  up  your  hands  and  help  me  to  beseech \nthe  Lord  for  a  good  end.  O  pure,  gentle,  kind \nMother  Mary !  reach  me  thy  hand  to-day,  and \nat  this  my  last  hour  graciously  receive  my  soul \nbeneath  thy  shelter,  for  thou  art  my  heart's  joy \nand  consolation.  O  Lady  and  Mother  mine,  into \nthy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit.  O  dear  Angels, \nbe  mindful  that,  all  my  life  through,  my  heart \nhas  ever  laughed  within  me,  when  I  only  heard \nyou  named,  and  forget  not  how  often  }rou  have \nbrought  me  in  my  sorrows  heavenly  joys,  and \nguarded  me  from  my  foes.  O  gentle  Spirits, \nit  is  only  now  that  my  greatest  straits  are  come, \nand  that  I  most  need  your  help.  Aid  me,  then, \nand  shield  me  from  the  horrible  si^ht  0f  my \nfoes,  the  evil  spirits.  O  Lord  of  heaven,  I \npraise  Thee  for  having  bestowed  on  me  at  my \ndeath-hour  such  entire  consciousness ;  and  I  go \n\n\nHE  COMES  NIGH  TO  DEATH.       145 \n\nhence  in  the  full  Christian  faith  without  a  doubt \nand  without  fear ;  and  I  forgive  all  those  who \nhave  ever  made  me  suffer,  as  Thou  upon  the \ncross  forgavest  those  who  slew  Thee.  Lord, \nLord,  Thy  divine  sacramental  Body,  which  I \nreceived  to-day  at  Mass,  ill  though  I  was,  must \nbe  my  guardian  and  my  convoy  to  Thy  divine \ncountenance.  My  last  prayer  which  I  make  now \nat  this  my  end,  gentle  Lord  of  heaven,  is  for \nmy  dear  spiritual  children,  who  whether  by  spe- \ncial bonds  of  faithfulness,  or  by  confession,  have \nlovingly  attached  themselves  to  me  in  this  mis- \nerable world.  O  merciful  God,  as  Thou  at  Thy \ndeparture  didst  commend  Thy  dear  disciples  to \nThy  Heavenly  Father,  even  so  in  that  self-same \nlove  let  these  be  commended  to  Thee,  and  grant \nthem  also  a  good  and  holy  end.  And  now  I \nturn  myself  away  altogether  from  all  creatures, \nand  I  turn  me  wholly  to  the  pure  Godhead,  the \nprimal  fountain-head  of  everlasting  bliss. \n\nAfter  he  had  held  much  discourse  within  his \nheart  in  this  fond  loving  fashion,  he  was  trans- \nported out  of  himself  in  ecstasy,  and  fell  into \nthe  faint  described  above.  At  length,  when  he \nand  others  fancied  that  he  must  have  departed, \nhe  came  to  himself  again,  and  his  affrighted \nheart  began  to  revive,  and  his  sick  limbs  to  re- \n\nL \n\n\n146  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ncover  strength,  and  he  got  well  and  returned  to \nlife  again,  as  before. \n\n\nChapter  XXXLTL \n\nHow  a  man  should  offer  up  his  sufferings  to  the  praise  and \nglory  of  God. \n\nWhen  the  suffering  Servitor  had  deeply \nmeditated  upon  this  long  and  weary  warfare, \nand  moreover  had  come  to  see  in  it  God's  hid- \nden marvels,  he  turned  one  day  to  God,  sighing \ninwardly,  and  said: — Alas,  Lord,  these  suffer- \nings are  in  their  outward  aspect  like  sharp  thorns \nwhich  pierce  through  flesh  and  bone.  There- \nfore, gentle  Lord,  cause  some  sweet  fruit  of \ngood  instruction  to  issue  forth  from  these  sharp \nthorns  of  sufferings,  that  we,  poor  men,  may \nsuffer  more  patiently,  and  be  better  able  to  offer \nup  our  sufferings  to  Thy  praise  and  glory. \n\nAfter  he  had  continued  for  a  long  time  ear- \nnestly beseeching  God  for  this,  it  came  to  pass \none  day  that  he  was  rapt  in  ecstasy,  and  his \nbodily  senses  being  abstracted,  it  was  sweetly \nsaid  to  him  within  his  soul : — I  will  show  thee \nto-day  the  high  nobility  of  My  life,  and  how  a \n\n\nHOW  TO  SUFFER  FOR  GOD.  147 \n\nsufferer  should  offer  up   his   sufferings  to  the \npraise  and  glory  of  the  loving  God. \n\nAt  these  sweet  interior  words  his  soul  was \nmelted  within  him,  and  his  bodily  senses  being \nstilled  in  ecstasy,  the  arms,  as  it  were,  of  his \nsoul  stretched  themselves  forth,  out  .of  the  un- \nfathomable fulness  of  his  heart  to  the  far-off \nends  of  the  universe,  even  to  heaven  and  earth  ; \nand  he  thanked  God  with  a  boundless  heartfelt \nyearning,  saying: — Hitherto,  O  Lord,  I  have \npraised  Thee  in  my  musings  with  the  aid  of  all \nthat  is  pleasant  and  delightful  in  all  creatures ; \nbut  now  I  must  joyously  break  forth  into  a  new \nsong,  and  a  strange  kind  of  praise,  which  I  knew \nnot  before,  since  I  have  only  now  come  to  know \nit  by  suffering.  And  it  is  this  :  I  pray  from \nmy  heart's  bottomless  depths  that  all  the  sorrow \nand  pain  wThich  I  have  ever  suffered,  as  well  as \nthe  woes  and  agonies  of  every  human  heart,  the \nsmarts  of  all  wounds,  the  anguish  of  all  the  sick, \nthe  groans  of  all  sad  souls,  the  tears  of  all  weep- \ning eyes,  the  misery  of  all  the  oppressed,  the \ndistress  of  all  needy  widows  and  orphans,  the \npining  want  of  all  the  poor  and  hungry,  the  out- \npoured blood  of  all  martyrs,  the  crushing  of  self- \nwill  in  all  who  are  young  and  blooming,  the \nafflictive  exercises  of  all  God's  friends,  and  all \n\n\n148  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  secret  and  open  pains  and  sorrows,  which  I \nor  any  other  poor  sufferer  ever  endured  in  body, \ngoods,  or  honour,  in  weal  or  woe,  or  which  any \none  will  ever  have  to  suffer  from  now  to  dooms- \nday,— all  these  I  pray  may  he  an  everlasting \nsource  of  praise  to  Thee,  O  Heavenly  Father, \nand  an  eternal  honour  to  Thy  only-begotten \nsuffering  Son  from  everlasting  to  everlasting. \nAnd  I,  Thy  poor  Servitor,  desire  to-day  to  be \nthe  faithful  representative  of  all  sufferers  who \nperchance  have  been  unable  to  turn  to  full  ac- \ncount their  sufferings,  by  patient  thanksgiving \nand  praise  of  God  for  them ;  and  I  wish  in  their \nplace  to  offer  up  their  sufferings  in  praise  of \nGod,  however  they  may  have  borne  them ;  and \nI  now  offer  them  up  to  Thee  in  their  stead,  just \nas  if  I  myself  alone  had  suffered  them  all  in  my \nbody  and  in  my  heart,  as  it  is  my  heart's  wish \nto  do ;  and  I  tender  them-  all  this  day  to  Thy \nonly-begotten  suffering  Son,  that  they  may  be \nan  everlasting  praise  to  Him,  and  that  the  suf- \nferers may  be  comforted,  whether  they  are  still \nhere  in  this  vale  of  sorrow,  or  in  the  next  world \nin  Thy  hand. \n\nO  all  ye  who  suffer  with  me,  look  at  me  and \ngive  ear  to  what  I  say  to  you !  We,  poor  mem- \nbers, ought  to  console  ourselves  and  rejoice  in \n\n\nHOW  TO  SUFFER  FOR  GOD.  149 \n\nour  venerable  Head,  God's  lovely  only-begotten \nSon,  that  He  lias  suffered  for  us,  and  never \npassed  one  pleasant  day  on  earth.  Behold !  if \nthere  is  only  one  rich  man  in  a  poor  family,  the \nwhole  family  rejoices  in  him.  Ah,  venerable \nHead  of  us  all,  Thy  members,  be  gracious  to  us, \nand  where  through  human  frailty  true  patience \nfails  us  in  any  affliction,  do  Thou  make  it  up \nfor  us  before  Thy  Heavenly  Father.  Bethink \nThee  how  Thou  earnest  once  to  the  help  of  one \nof  Thy  servants,  and  when  his  courage  was  all \nbut  failing  him  through  suffering,  Thou  saidst \nto  him : — Be  of  good  cheer  and  look  at  Me.  I \nwas  noble  and  poor ;  I  was  tender  and  in  misery ; \nI  was  born  from  out  the  fulness  of  all  joys,  and \nyet  I  was  full  of  sorrow.  Therefore,  as  valiant \nknights  of  our  imperial  Lord,  let  us  not  lose \nheart;  as  noble  followers  of  our  venerable  Leader, \nlet  us  be  of  good  cheer,  and  rejoice  to  suffer;  for \nif  there  were  no  other  profit  and  good  in  suffer- \ning, than  that  we  became  more  like  the  fair \nbright  mirror  Christ,  the  more  closely  that  we \ncopied  Him  in  this,  our  sufferings  would  be  well \nlaid  out.  It  seems  to  me  in  truth,  that  even  if \nGod  meant  to  give  the  same  reward  hereafter \nto  those  who  suffer  and  to  those  who  do  not  suf- \nfer, we  ought  still  to  choose  suffering  for  our  lot, \n\n\n150  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwere  it  only  to  be  like  Him ;  for  love  produces \nlikeness  and  devotion  to  the  beloved,  so  far  as \nit  can  and  may.  But  oh !  how  dare  we  pre- \nsume to  take  upon  ourselves  that  we  ought  to \nresemble  Thee,  O  noble  Lord,  in  our  sufferings! \nThy  sufferings  and  our  sufferings  how  unlike \nthey  are !  O  Lord,  Thou  alone  art  the  sufferer \nwho  hast  never  deserved  to  suffer.  But  where  is \nhe,  alas,  who  can  pride  himself  that  he  has  never \ngiven  cause  for  sufferings  I  For  if  on  the  one \nhand  he  is  guiltless  in  that  for  which  he  suffers, \non  the  other  he  deserves  punishment  on  other \ncounts.  Therefore  we  place  ourselves,  I  mean \nall  we  who  have  ever  suffered,  in  a  great  wide \nring  round  and  round;  and  we  place  Thee,  our \ndear  gentle  Lover,  in  the  midst  of  us,  even  in  the \nring  of  us  suffering  mortals,  and  we  spread  out \nfar  and  wide  our  thirsty  veins  with  great  long- \ning towards  Thee,  the  rich  outbursting  foun- \ntain of  all  grace.  Behold  and  marvel.  Just  as \nthe  earth  which  is  most  cracked  with  drought \ntakes  in  best  the  stormy  streams  of  watery  rain, \neven  so  we  heavily-laden  men,  the  more  guilty \nwe  are  towards  Thee,  the  more  closely  do  we \nclasp  Thee  to  us  with  outspread  hearts,  and \nour  longing  desire  is  that,  come  what  may,  ac- \ncording to  the  promise  of  Thy  divine  mouth,  we \n\n\nTHE  REWARDS  OF  SUFFERING.  151 \n\nmay  be  washed  in  Thy  streaming  and  trickling \nwounds,  and  be  set  free  thereby  from  every \nsin ;  for  all  which  Thou  shalt  receive  everlasting \npraise  and  honour  from  us,  and  we  shall  obtain \ngrace  from  Thee,  since  all  unlikeness  will  be \nremoved  from  us  by  Thy  almightiness. \n\nAfter  the  Servitor  had  remained  sitting  with- \nout movement  for  a  long  time,  during  which \nall  this  was  revealed  to  him  with  great  solem- \nnity in  the  innermost  interior  of  his  soul,  he \nrose  up  joyfully  and  thanked  God  for  the  grace \nwhich  he  had  received. \n\n\nChapter  XXXIV. \n\nOf  the  joys  with  which  God  recompenses  in  this  present \nlife  those  who  suffer  for  Him. \n\nOn  a  joyful  Easter-day  the  Servitor  was  once \nin  very  blithesome  mood,  and  as  he  sat  for  a \nshort  time,  according  to  his  custom,  in  the  re- \npose of  contemplation,  he  desired  earnestly  to \nhear  from  God  what  meed  of  delights  they  shall \nreceive  from  Him  in  this  life  who  have  borne \nmanifold  sufferings  for  His  sake.  Whereupon, \nbeing  rapt  in  ecstasy,  a  light  shone  into  his  soul \nfrom  God  to  this  effect: — Let  all  who  suffer \n\n\n152  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwith  detachment  rejoice,  for  their  patience  shall \nbe  gloriously  rewarded ;  and  as  they  have  been \nhere  below  an  object  of  pity  to  many,  even  so \nshall  many  rejoice  eternally  at  the  deserved \npraise  and  everlasting  honour  which  shall  be \ntheirs.  They  have  died  with  Me,  and  they \nshall  also  rise  again  with  Me  in  gladness. \nThree  special  gifts  I  will  give  them,  so  precious \nthat  no  one  can  reckon  up  their  value.  First, \nI  will  give  absolute  power  to  their  wishes  in \nheaven  and  on  earth,  so  that  whatever  they \nwish  shall  come  to  pass.  Secondly,  I  will  give \nthem  My  divine  peace,  which  neither  angel, \nnor  devil,  nor  man,  nor  any  other  creature  can \ntake  away  from  them.  Thirdly,  I  will  so  in- \nwardly kiss  them  through  and  through,  and  so \nlovingly  embrace  them,  that  I  in  them  and  they \nin  Me,  and  we  together,  shall  abide  eternally, \none  undivided  unity  for  ever.  And  since  long \nwaiting  and  praying  are  painful  to  restless \nhearts,  this  love  shall  not  be  withheld  from \nthem  during  this  short  present  hour  of  life, \nwhich  lasts  but  for  a  moment,  but  it  shall  begin \neven  now,  and  be  enjoyed  eternally,  so  far  as \nman's  mortal  nature  can  in  each  case  more  or \nless  support  it. \n\nThese  glad  tidings  filled  the  Servitor  with \n\n\nTHE  REWARDS  OF  SUFFERING.  153 \n\njoy;  and  when  he  came  to  himself  again,  he \nsprang  up,  and  began  to  laugh  so  heartily  that \nthe  chapel  in  which  he  was  reechoed  to  the \nsound,  and  he  said  within  himself  joyously : — \nLet  him  who  has  suffered  come  forward  and \ncomplain.  God  knows,  I  can  declare  that  as  to \nmyself,  methinks  I  have  never  had  any  thing \nat  all  to  suffer.  I  know  not  what  suffering  is ; \nbut  I  know  well  what  joy  and  bliss  are.  Power \nto  wish  and  to  obtain  is  given  me;  a  thing \nwhich  many  erring  hearts  must  be  without. \nWhat  want  I  more?  Then  he  turned  his \nthoughts  to  the  eternal  Truth,  and  said : — Ah  ! \neternal  Truth,  show  me  now  this  hidden  mys- \ntery, so  far  as  words  can  tell  it,  for  it  is  a  truth \nof  which  many  blinded  men  are  altogether  ig- \nnorant. \n\nThis  mystery  was  inwardly  manifested  to \nhim  thus  :  —  Mark  those  who  have  paid  due \n.attention  to  the  breaking  away  from  creatures, \n— in  other  words,  to  that  death  to  self  and  all \nthings  with  which  a  man  must  begin.  Alas  ! \nthere  are  not  many  such.  The  mind  and \nthoughts  of  these  men  have  so  passed  away  into \nGod,  that  they  know  nothing,  as  it  were,  of  them- \nselves, save  only  that  they  view  themselves \nand  all  things  in  their  primal  fountain-head; \n\n\n154  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  therefore  they  have  the  same  pleasure  and \ncomplacency  in  each  several  thing  which  God \ndoes,  as  if  God  stood  by  unconcerned  with  it  and \ninactive,  and  it  were  granted  to  them  to  carry \nout  each  thing  according  to  their  own  mind; \nand  thus  it  is  that  their  will  is  absolute  in \nmight,  for  heaven  and  earth  serve  them,  and \nevery  creature  is  subject  to  them,  in  what  each \ndoes  or  leaves  undone.  Such  persons  feel  no \nsorrow  of  heart  about  any  thing ;  for  I  only  call \nthat  pain  and  sorrow  of  heart  which  the  will \nwith  full  deliberation  wishes  to  be  freed  from. \nExternally,  indeed,  they  have  a  sense  of  plea- \nsure and  pain  like  other  people,  and  it  is  more \nintense  perhaps  in  them  than  others,  because  of \ntheir  great  tenderness ;  but  in  their  inmost  souls \nit  finds  no  abiding- place,  and  exteriorly  they \nremain  firm  against  impatience.  They  are  filled \nto  the  full  even  in  this  life,  so  far  as  this  is \npossible,  owing  to  their  detachment  from  self,, \nand  hence  their  joy  is  complete  and  stable  in  all \nthings.  For  in  the  divine  essence,  into  which \ntheir  hearts  have  passed  away  and  become \nmerged, — that  is,  supposing  they  have  not  gone \nastray  from  the  right  path, — neither  pain  nor \nsorrow  finds  place,  but  only  peace  and  joy.  If, \nhowever,  thy  own  frailty  entices  thee  to  commit \n\n\nTHE  REWARDS  OF  SUFFERING.  155 \n\nsin,  from  which  pain  and  sorrow  justly  spring  np \nfor  the  sinner,  and  if  thou  committest  sin,  then, \nand  then  only,  thou  wilt  find  a  flaw  in  thy \nhappiness.     But  if  thou  avoidest  sin,  and  goest \nout  of  thyself  in  this  respect,  and  passest  away \ninto  that  in  which  thou  canst  have  neither  suf- \nfering nor  sorrow — since  pain  is  not  pain  to  thee \nthere,  nor  suffering  suffering,  but  all  things  are \nunmingled  peace — then  it  is  well  with  thee  in \nvery  truth.     And  all  this  comes  to  pass  because \ntheir  self-will  is  lost  and  gone.   For  these  persons \nare  of  themselves  driven  onward  with  a  longing \nthirst  towards  God's  will  and  His  justice;  and \nthey  find  such  a  sweet  savour  in  God's  will,  and \nthey  so  delight  in  it,  and  take  such  pleasure \nin  all  that  He  ordains  concerning  them,  that \nthey  have  no  wish  nor  desire  for  any  thing  else. \nThis,  however,  must   not  be   understood  as  if \nthey  were  forbidden  to  ask  things  of  God  and \nto  pray  to  Him;  for  it  is  God's  will  that  we \npray  to  Him.     But  it  is  to  be  understood  of  the \ndue  and  rightful  going  forth  out  of  our  own \njudgment  into  the  will  of  the  supreme    God- \nhead, as  has  been  said.     Now  there  lies  in  this \na  hidden  difficulty,  against  which  many  stumble, \nand  it  is  this.     Who  knows,  they  say,  whether \nit  is  God's  will?     See  now.     God  is  a  super- \n\n\n156  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nessential  good,  and  He  is  more  interiorly  pre- \nsent to  every  individual  thing  than  that  thing \ncan  be  to  itself;  and  against  His  will  nothing \ncan  happen,  nor  can  any  thing  exist  for  an  in- \nstant. Therefore  they  must  be  miserable  who \nare  always  struggling  against  God's  will  and \ndesiring  to  do  their  own  will,  if  they  could. \nThey  have  the  kind  of  peace  which  is  in  hell, \nfor  they  are  always  in  sadness  and  heaviness. \nOn  the  contrary,  a  soul  stripped  of  self  has  God \nand  peace  at  all  times  present  to  it,  in  adversity \nas  well  as  in  prosperity ;  for  if  He  is  truly  there \nwho  does  all  and  is  all,  how  can  the  sight  of \ntheir  own  sufferings  be  grievous  to  them,  since \nin  them  they  see  God,  find  God,  make  use  of \nGod's  will,  and  know  nothing  of  their  own  will? \nnot  to  speak  of  the  consoling  illuminations  and \nheavenly  delights  with  which  God  often  secretly \nsustains  His  suffering  friends.  These  persons \nare,  as  it  were,  in  heaven.  What  happens  to \nthem  or  does  not  happen  to  them,  what  God  does \nin  all  creatures  or  does  not  do,  all  turns  to  their \nadvantage.  And  thus  he  who  can  bear  suffer- \ning well  receives  in  this  world  a  portion  of  the \nreward  of  his  sufferings ;  for  he  finds  peace  and \njoy  in  all  things,  and  after  death  everlasting  life \nawaits  him. \n\n\nHIS  SPIRITUAL  DAUGHTER.  157 \n\nChapter  XXXY. \n\nOf  the  Servitor's  spiritual  daughter. \n\na  Filia  confide,\" — Be  of  good  heart,  daugh- \nter (Matt.  ix.  22).  The  Servitor  had  at  this \ntime  a  spiritual  daughter,  of  the  Order  of  Friars \nPreachers,  in  an  enclosed  convent  at  Tosse.* \nHer  name  was  Elizabeth  Staglin,  and  she  lived \na  very  holy  life  exteriorly,  and  was  of  an  an- \ngelic disposition  within.  The  noble  and  ener- \ngetic way  in  which  she  turned  herself  with  her \nwhole  heart  and  soul  to  God  set  her  free  en- \ntirely from  all  those  vain  things  which  cause  so \nmany  persons  to  neglect  their  eternal  salvation. \nAll  her  diligence  was  directed  towards  obtain- \ning spiritual  instruction,  that  she  might  thus  be \nguided  to  a  blessed  and  perfect  life,  the  one  end \nand  object  of  all  her  wishes.  She  wrote  down \nwhatever  she  met  with  that  pleased  her,  and \nseemed  calculated  to  aid  herself  and  others  in \nthe  acquisition  of  divine  virtues ;  and  she  acted \nin  this  like  the  industrious  bees,  which  bring \nback  sweet  honey  collected  from  many  different \nflowers. \n\nIn  the  convent  where  she  lived  among  the \nsisters  as  a  mirror  of  every  virtue,  she  composed, \n\n*  Thoss,  near  Winterthur,  in  Switzerland, \n\n\n158  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nnotwithstanding  her  bodily  infirmities,  a  large \nbook,  containing,  among  other  things,  an  ac- \ncount of  the  blessed  lives  which  the  deceased \nholy  sisters  had  led,  and  the  great  marvels  God \nhad  wrought  in  them.  It  is  a  book  well  suited \nto  excite  good-hearted  persons  to  devotion.* \n\nThis  blessed  daughter  came  to  hear  of  the \nServitor  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  and  God  in- \nspired her  with  great  devotion  to  his  manner  of \nlife  and  teaching.  She  drew  from  him  secretly \nthe  way  in  which  he  broke  through  created \nthings  to  arrive  at  God,  and  she  wrote  it  down, \nas  has  been  already  related. \n\nAt  the  first  beginning  of  her  conversion  to \nGod  she  came  across  a  great  many  deep  intel- \nlectual views  regarding  the  pure  Godhead,  the \nnothingness  of  all  things,  detachment  from  self, \nabstraction  of  the  mind  from  all  sensible  forms, \nand  such -like  high  things;  and  they  were \nclothed  in  beautiful  language,  and  were  very- \npleasant  to  reflect  upon.  But  there  lay  con- \ncealed beneath  them  something  hurtful  to \nsimple-minded  beginners  like  her ;  for  she  was \nquite    ignorant    of  the    necessary   distinctions \n\n*  Henry  Murcr  lias  extracted  many  of  these  lives  from \nthe  Chronicles  of  the  convent  at  Thoss,  and  inserted  them \nin  his  Jlelcctla  San  eta. \n\n\nHIS  SPIRITUAL  DAUGHTER.  159 \n\nwhich  ought  to  be  made,  inasmuch  as  the  words \nwere  capable  of  being  taken  in  a  spiritual  or \na  natural  sense,  according  to  the  disposition  of \nthose  who  used  them.  These  doctrines  were \ngood  in  themselves ;  but  they  were  insufficient \nfor  her  instruction.  She  therefore  wrote  to  the \nServitor,  asking  him  to  help  her,  and  guide  her \nalong  the  right  path.  Nevertheless,  as  she  had \nalready  tasted  of  the  pleasure  which  is  to  be \nfound  in  these  doctrines,  she  prayed  him  to  pass \nover  the  common  ordinary  kind  of  instruction, \nand  to  write  to  her  something  about  the  above- \nmentioned  high  subjects. \n\nThe  Servitor  answered  her  thus: — Good \ndaughter,  if  thou  askest  me  concerning  high \nthings  through  curiosity,  in  order  to  become \nacquainted  with  them,  and  to  be  able  to  talk \nwell  about  spiritual  matters,  what  I  have  to  say \nto  thee  will  need  but  a  few  words.  Take  not \ntoo  much  pleasure  in  them,  for  they  may  easily \nlead  thee  into  dangerous  errors.  True  bliss  lies \nnot  in  beautiful  words,  but  in  good  works.  If, \nhowever,  thou  askest  about  these  things  in  order \nto  put  them  in  practice,  my  answer  is,  Let  alone \nfor  the  present  these  deep  questions,  and  attend \nto  those  only  which  are  suitable  for  thee.  Thou \nseemest  to  me  to  be  as  yet  a  young  unexercised \n\n\n160  LIFE  OP  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nsister,  and  therefore  it  will  be  more  profitable  to \nthee,  and  the  like  of  thee,  to  hear  about  the \nfirst  beginnings  of  the  spiritual  life,  both  how  it \nought  to  be  begun  and  what  exercises  are  ap- \npropriate to  it ;  and  also  about  good  and  holy- \nexamples,  as,  for  instance,  how  this  and  that \nfriend  of  God,  who  began  in  the  same  way,  first \nof  all  exercised  themselves  in  imitating  Christ's \nlife  and  sufferings ;  what  kind  of  things  they  had \nto  suffer  continually ;  how  they  bore  themselves \nin  their  sufferings  interiorly  and  exteriorly ;  whe- \nther God  drew  them  onwards  by  sweetness  or \nby  severity;  and  when  and  how  they  were  set \nfree  from  sensible  forms  and  images.  This  is \nthe  way  in  which  a  beginner  is  spurred  on  and \nguided  to  perfection ;  for,  though  it  is  true  that \nGod  can  give  all  this  to  a  person  in  an  instant, \nit  is  not  His  way  to  do  so,  but  it  is  to  be  ob- \ntained ordinarily  only  by  hard  labour  and  many \nconflicts. \n\nOn  receiving  this  letter,  the  daughter  re- \nplied to  him  as  follows : — What  I  long  for  is \nnot  wise  words,  but  a  holy  life  ;  and  this  I  have \nthe  courage  truly  and  honestly  to  strive  after \nuntil  I  attain  it,  whatever  pain  it  may  entail \nupon  me,  and  no  matter  what  I  may  have  to \ngive  up  or  suffer,  or  die  to,  or  whatever  else \n\n\nHIS  SPIRITUAL  DAUGHTER.  161 \n\nmay  be  needful  to  bring  me  to  perfection ;  for \nall  this  I  must  and  will  undergo.  And  fear  not \non  account  of  the  weakness  of  my  nature ;  for \nwhatever  you  have  the  courage  to  command  me, \nwhich  is  painful  to  nature,  I  have  the  courage \nto  accomplish,  with  the  help  of  God's  might. \nBegin  first  with  the  lowest  things,  and  guide \nme  in  them,  just  as  a  little  school-child  is  first \ntaught  what  is  adapted  to  its  childish  years,  and \nthen  afterwards  receives  more  and  more  instruc- \ntion, until  it  becomes  at  last  a  master  in  the  art. \nOne  only  prayer  I  make  to  you,  and  this  you \nmust  grant  me,  for  God's  sake,  in  order  that  I \nmay  not  only  be  instructed  by  you,  but  may  be \nalso  strengthened  against  all  the  trials  which  I \nmay  have  to  encounter.  He  asked  what  this \nrequest  might  be.  She  answered : — Sir,  I  have \nheard  say  that  the  pelican  is  of  such  a  nature \nthat  it  bites  itself,  and,  from  natural  love,  feeds \nwith  its  own.  blood  its  young  offspring  in  the \nnest.  Ah,  sir,  what  I  ask  is,  that  you  will  act \nthus  towards  your  needy  child,  and  feed  her \nwith  the  spiritual  food  of  your  good  teaching ; \nand  that  you  will  not  seek  for  this  from  afar, \nbut  take  it  from  yourself;  for  the  nearer  it  has \nbeen  to  you  in  the  way  of  experience,  the  more \ndeeply  it  will  come  home  to  my  longing  soul. \nM \n\n\n162  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nThe  Servitor  wrote  thus  to  her  in  answer: — \nThou  showedst  me  a  little  while  ago  some  high \nthoughts  which  thou  hadst  thyself  culled  from \nthe  sweet  teaching  of  the  holy  Master  Eckart, \nand  which,  as  is  just,  thou  valuedst  highly;  and \nI  marvel  much,  that,  after  thou  hast  drunk  of \nthe  noble  drink  of  this  high  Master,  thou  de- \nclarest  thyself  so  thirsty  for  the  coarse  drink  of \nthe  lowly  Servitor.  Nevertheless,  when  I  con- \nsider it  well,  I  note  with  joy  thy  great  wisdom \nin  this  matter ;  namely,  that  thou  art  so  busy  in \nthy  questionings  about  what  is  the  first  begin- \nning of  a  high  and  secure  life,  and  what  are  the \nexercises  which  must  be  first  practised  in  order \nto  attain  it. \n\n\nChapter  XXXVI. \n\nOf  the  first  beginnings  of  a  beginner. \nThe  beginnings  of  a  holy  life,  said  the \nServitor  to  the  daughter,  are  various.  One \nperson  begins  in  one  way,  and  another  in  an- \nother; but  as  regards  the  beginning,  to  which \nyour  questions  refer,  I  will  tell  you  about  it. \nI  know  a  man  in  Christ,  who,  when  he  began \nto  give  himself  to  God,  first  cleared  out  his \nconscience   by   a   general   confession ;    and  he \n\n\nFIRST  BEGINNINGS.  163 \n\nspared  no  pains  to  make  tins  confession  well, \nby  exposing  every  sin  that  lie  had  committed \nto  a  prudent  confessor,  in  order  that  he  might \ngo  pure  and  clean  from  the  confessor,  who  sits \nin  God's  place,  and  that  all  his  sins  might  be \nforgiven  him,  as  happened  to  Mary  Magdalen, \nwhen,  with  penitent  heart  and  tearful  eyes,  she \nwashed  Christ's  feet,  and  God  forgave  her  all \nher  sins.  Such  was  the  first  beginning  of  this \nman's  turning  to  God. \n\nThe  daughter  laid  this  example  very  much \nto  heart,  and  she  wished  to  lose  no  time  in \nimitating  it,  and  she  conceived  a  great  desire \nto  make  her  confession  to  the  Servitor,  thinking \nthat  he  would  be  the  one  best  suited  for  her ; \nand  it  was  her  intention  also,  in  doing  this,  to \nbecome  thereby  his  spiritual  daughter,  and  so \nto  have  a  greater  claim  upon  his  godly  care. \n\nNow  it  so  happened  that  the  confession \ncould  not  be  made  by  word  of  mouth.  She \ntherefore  passed  in  review  her  whole  life,  which, \nin  very  truth,  had  been  a  pure  and  innocent \none;  and  whatever  sins  it  seemed  to  her  that \nshe  had  committed,  she  wrote  down  on  a  large \nwaxen  tablet,  which  she  then  fastened  up  and \nsent  to  him,  begging  him  to  pronounce  absolu- \ntion over  her  sins. \n\n\n164  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nWhen  he  read  through  the  confession,  lie \ncame  to  the  following  words  at  the  bottom  of \nthe  tablet: — Gracious  sir,  I,  a  sinful  creature, \nfall  down  now  at  your  feet  and  beseech  you, \nwith  your  true  and  faithful  heart,  to  bring  me \nback  again  into  God's  heart,  and  to  let  me  be \ncalled  your  child  in  time  and  in  eternity.  The \ndaughter  s  confiding  devotion  touched  him  very \nmuch,  and,  turning  to  God,  he  said : — Merciful \nGod,  what  answer  is  Thy  Servitor  to  make  to \nthis?  Shall  I  drive  her  from  me?  I  should \nnot  like  to  treat  a  dog  thus.  O  Lord,  if  I  did \nthis,  it  might  reflect  ill  upon  Thee,  my  Lord \nand  Master ;  for  she  seeks  the  Lord's  wealth  in \nHis  servant.  O  gentle  Lord,  I  cast  myself  at \nThy  holy  feet,  and  beseech  Thee,  kind  Lord,  to \nhear  her.  Let  her  have  the  benefit  of  her  good \nfaith  and  hearty  confidence,  for  she  cries  after \nus.  How  didst  Thou  treat  the  heathen  woman? \nAh !  kind  Heart,  see  how  far  and  wide  the  fame \nof  Thy  unfathomable  bountifulness  has  spread \namongst  us.  O  kindly  Goodness,  turn  Thy \ngentle  eyes  towards  her,  and  say  to  her  one \nsingle  little  word  of  consolation.  Say  then, \n\"  Confide  filia,  fides  tua  te  salvam  fecit,\" — Be \nof  good  heart,  daughter;  thy  faith  has  saved \nthee.     And  bring  Thou  it  to  pass  in  my  stead ; \n\n\nFIRST  BEGINNINGS.  165 \n\nfor  I  have  done  what  rests  with  me,  and  I  have \nwished  her  a  full  absolution  from  all  her  sins. \n\nHe  wrote  back  the  following  answer  to  her \nby  the  same  messenger: — What  thou  hast  asked \nof  God  through  the  Servitor  has  come  to  pass, \nand  thou  must  know  that  it  was  all  shown  to \nhim  by  God  beforehand.  Early  this  very  morn- \ning, when  his  prayer  was  ended,  he  sat  down \nfor  a  brief  moment  of  repose;  and  his  bodily \nsenses  being  stilled  in  ecstasy,  many  divine \nmysteries  were  manifested  to  him.  Among \nother  things,  he  was  enlightened  to  understand \nhow  God  has  made  diversity  of  form  to  be  the \nindividualising  principle  of  the  angelic  nature, \nand  has  given  to  each  angel  a  special  property \nwhich  distinguishes  him  from  the  rest ;  all  which \nit  is  impossible  for  him  to  express  in  words. \nAfter  he  had  spent  a  good  space  of  time  in \nheavenly  recreation  with  the  angelic  spirits,  and \nwas  in  very  joyous  mood  through  the  exceeding \nwonderment  which  his  soul  had  felt,  it  seemed \nto  him,  in  the  same  vision,  that  thou  didst  come \nin  and  stand  before  him  where  he  sat  among  the \nheavenly  company,  and  then,  kneeling  down \nwith  great  earnestness  in  front  of  him,  didst \nbow  thy  face  upon  his  heart,  and  continue \nkneeling  thus  with  thy  face  bowed  upon  his \n\n\n166  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nheart,  so  that  the  angels  who  stood  by  beheld \nit.  The  brother  marvelled  at  thy  boldness,  and \nyet  thy  bearing  was  so  holy  that  he  graciously \npermitted  it.  What  manner  of  graces  the \nHeavenly  Father  bestowed  on  thee,  whilst  thou \nwert  bowed  down  upon  the  suffering  heart,  thou \nknowest  right  well,  and  they  were  visible  upon \nthee;  for  when  after  a  good  while  thou  didst \nraise  up  thyself,  thy  countenance  was  so  joyous \nand  full  of  grace,  that  it  was  quite  evident  God \nhad  bestowed  some  special  grace  upon  thee ;  and \nHe  will  do  still  more  for  thee  through  the  same \nheart,  that  He  may  be  glorified  in  it,  and  thou \nconsoled. \n\nThe  like  happened  also  to  a  maiden  named \nAnna,  a  noble  and  godly  person,  who  dwelt  in \na  castle,  and  who,  moreover,  led  a  life  of  pure \nunmingled  suffering.  God  wrought  great  mar- \nvels in  her  from  her  youth  up  until  her  death. \nBefore  she  knew  the  Servitor,  or  had  ever  heard \nof  him,  she  was  one  day  rapt  in  ecstasy  at  her \ndevotions,  and  she  saw  how  the  Saints  gaze  upon \nand  praise  God  in  the  court  of  heaven.  Upon \nthis  she  prayed  her  dear  Apostle  St.  John,  to \nwhom  she  had  a  sj)ecial  devotion,  to  hear  her \nconfession.  He  answered  her  very  lovingly : — \nI  will  give  thee  a  good  confessor  in  my  place. \n\n\nFIRST  BEGINNINGS.  167 \n\nGod  has  granted  him  full  authority  over  thee, \nand  he  can  comfort  thee  well  in  thy  manifold \nsufferings.  She  asked  who  and  where  he  was, \nand  what  was  his  name:  all  which  St.  John \nmade  known  to  her.  She  thanked  God,  and, \nrising  early  in  the  morning,  went  to  the  monas- \ntery which  God  had  shown  her,  and  asked  for \nhim.  He  came  to  her  to  the  outer  gate,  and \ninquired  of  her  what  her  business  was.  Upon \nthis  she  made  her  confession  to  him,  and  when \nhe  heard  the  heavenly  message,  he  consented, \nand  fulfilled  it. \n\nThis  holy  daughter  also  told  him,  that  she \nhad  once  seen  in  spirit  a  beautiful  rose-tree, \nrichly  adorned  with  red  roses,  and  on  the  rose- \ntree  there  appeared  the  little  Child  Jesus,  with \na  garland  of  red  roses.  Beneath  the  rose-tree \nshe  saw  the  Servitor  sitting.  The  little  Child \nbroke  off  many  of  the  roses,  and  threw  them \nupon  the  Servitor,  so  that  he  became  all  covered \nand  bestrewed  with  roses.  Upon  this  she  asked \nthe  Child  what  the  roses  meant,  and  He  an- \nswered : — The  great  quantity  of  roses  signifies \nthe  manifold  sufferings  which  God  will  send \nhim,  and  which  he  must  lovingly  accept  at \nGod's  hands,  and  bear  with  patience. \n\n\n168  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  XXXVII. \n\nOf  the  first  lessons  and  examples  which  are  suitable  for  a \nbeginner,  and  how  he  should  regulate  his  exercises  with \ndiscretion. \n\nAt  the  first  beginning  of  the  Servitor's  in- \nterior life,  after  he  had  purified  his  soul  properly \nby  confession,  he  marked  out  for  himself,  in \nthought,  three  circles,  within  which  he  shut \nhimself  up,  as  in  a  spiritual  intrenchment. \nThe  first  circle  was  his  cell,  his  chapel,  and \nthe  choir.  When  he  was  within  this  circle,  he \nseemed  to  himself  in  complete  security.  The \nsecond  circle  was  the  whole  monastery  as  far  as \nthe  outer  gate.  The  third  and  outermost  circle \nwas  the  gate;  and  here  it  was  necessary  for  him \nto  stand'  well  upon  his  guard.  When  he  went \noutside  these  three  circles,  it  seemed  to  him  that \nhe  was  in  the  plight  of  some  wild-animal  which \nis  outside  its  hole,  and  surrounded  by  the  hunt, \nand  therefore  in  need  of  all  its  cunning  and \nwatchfulness. \n\nHe  had,  moreover,  in  his  beginnings,  made \nchoice  of  a  chapel  as  a  place  of  retirement,  in \nwhich  he  might  satisfy  his  devotion  by  means \nof  pictures.  Now  it  should  be  observed  that,  in \nhis  youth,  he  had  caused  to  be  painted  for  him- \n\n\nPICTURE  OF  THE  ETERNAL  WISDOM.      169 \n\nself,  upon  parchment,  a  picture  of  the  Eternal \nWisdom,  who  rules  supreme  over  heaven  and \nearth,  and  far  surpasses  all  created  things  in \nravishing  beauty  and  loveliness  of  form;  for \nwhich  reason,  when  he  was  in  the  bloom  of \nyouth,  he  had  chosen  Wisdom  for  his  beloved. \nHe  carried  this  lovely  picture  with  him  when \nhe  journeyed  to  the  place  of  studies,  and  he \nalways  set  it  before  him  in  the  window  of  his \noell,  and  used  to  look  at  it  lovingly  with  heart- \nfelt longings.  He  brought  it  back  home  with \nhim  on  his  return,  and  caused  it  to  be  trans- \nferred to  his  chapel-wall  as  a  token  of  affection. \nWhat  other  kinds  of  symbolical  representations \nwere  there,  bearing  upon  the  interior  life,  and \nadapted  to  himself  and  other  beginners,  may  be \nlearned  from  the  pictures  and  sayings  of  the \nancient  fathers  painted  on  the  walls.  A  part \nof  these  sayings,  translated  into  the  vulgar \ntongue,  follows  below,  exactly  as  they  were  in- \nscribed upon  the  chapel : — \n\nThe  ancient  father  Arsenius  asked  the  angel \nwhat  he  must  do  to  be  saved.  The  angel  an- \nswered : — Thou  must  flee,  and  be  silent  and  sit \nstill. \n\nAfterwards,  in  a  vision,  the  angel  read  these \n\n\n170  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwords  to  the  Servitor  out  of  the  book  of  the \nancient  fathers : — A  well-spring  of  all  bliss  is  to \nkeep  thyself  quiet  and  in  solitude. \n\nAbbot  Theodore.  To  keep  thyself  pure  and \nspotless  will  advance  thee  more  in  knowledge \nthan  study  will. \n\nAbbot  Moses.  Sit  in  thy  cell :  it  will  teach \nthee  all  things. \n\nAbbot  John.  Keep  thy  outward  man  still, \nand  thy  inward  man  pure. \n\nThe  same.  A  fish  out  of  water  and  a  monk \nout  of  his  monastery  will  equally  come  to  grief. \n\nAnthony.  Bodily  mortification,  interior  devo- \ntion, and  seclusion  from  men  beget  chastity. \n\nThe  same.  Wear  no  garment  in  which  vanity \ncan  be  discerned.  The  first  battle  of  a  beginner \nis  boldly  to  resist  sins. \n\nThe  Shepherd.  Be  wroth  with  no  one,  until \nhe  tries  to  pluck  out  thy  right  eye. \n\nIsidore.  A  wrathful  man  is  displeasing  to \nGod,  however  great  may  be  the  miracles  which \nhe  works. \n\nIpericius.  It  is  a  less  sin  to  eat  meat  when  it \nshould  have  been  avoided  than  to  backbite  thy \nneighbour. \n\nPior.  It  is  very  wicked  to  bring  forward  the \nsins  of  others,  and  to  keep  back  our  own. \n\n\nMAXIMS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  FATHERS.      171 \n\nZacliary.  A  man  must  suffer  great  humilia- \ntions if  he  is  to  arrive  at  perfection. \n\nNestor.  Thou  must  first  become  an  ass,  if \nthou  wouldst  possess  heavenly  wisdom. \n\nAn  Ancient.  Thou  shouldst  be  immovable \nin  weal  and  woe,  like  one  dead. \n\nHelias.  A  pale  complexion,  a  wasted  body, \nand  a  lowly  bearing  beseem  well  a  spiritual  man. \n\nHilarion.  A  wanton  horse  and  an  unchaste \nbody  should  have  their  provender  cut  down. \n\nAn  Ancient.  Take  away  from  me  wine,  for \nthe  death  of  the  soul  lies  hidden  in  it. \n\nThe  Shepherd.  He  who  still  complains,  and \ncannot  keep  from  anger  and  much  talking,  will \nnever  become  a  spiritual  man. \n\nCassian.  As  the  dying  Christ  bore  Himself \nupon  the  cross,  so  should  our  manner  of  life  be \nfashioned. \n\nAnthony  said  to  a  brother: — O  man,  help \nthyself;  otherwise  neither  God  nor  I  will  ever \nhelp  thee. \n\nA  woman  besought  the  ancient  father  Ar- \nsenius  to  remember  her  before  God.  He  an- \nswered:— I  pray  God  to  blot  out  thy  image \nfrom  my  heart. \n\nMacarius.  I  inflict  many  hardships  on  my \nbody,  because  I  have  many  temptations  from  it. \n\n\n172  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nJohn,  the  father,  said: — I  have  never  done \nmy  own  will,  and  I  never  taught  any  thing  in \nwords  which  I  had  not  first  practised  in  deeds. \n\nAn  Ancient.  Many  words  without  deeds  are \nvain;  like  the  tree  which  bears  many  leaves,  but \nno  fruit. \n\nNilus.  He  who  must  have  much  intercourse \nwith  the  world  must  needs  also  receive  many \nwounds. \n\nAn  Ancient.  If  thou  canst  do  nothing  else, \nkeep  guard  at  least  over  thy  cell  for  God. \n\nIpericius.  He  who  keeps  himself  chaste  will \nbe  honoured  here,  and  crowned  by  God  hereafter. \n\nApollonius.  Kesist  beginnings,  and  stop  the \nserpent  by  the  head. \n\nAgathon.  I  have  carried  a  stone  in  my  mouth \nfor  three  years,  that  I  might  learn  silence. \n\nArsenius.  I  have  often  repented  of  having \nspoken,  but  never  of  having  kept  silence. \n\nAn  ancient  father  was  asked  by  a  disciple \nhow  long  he  should  keep  silence.  The  father \nanswered : — Until  thou  art  asked  a  question. \n\nSt.  SyncUtica.  If  thou  art  sick,  rejoice  there- \nat, for  God  has  been  mindful  of  thee. \n\nTlie  same.  If  thou  art  sick,  do  not  ascribe  it \nto  thy  fasts,  for  those  also  fall  sick  who  do  not \nfast. \n\n\nMAXIMS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  FATHERS.      173 \n\nThe  same.  If  thou  art  tried  by  temptations \nof  the  flesh,  rejoice,  for  thou  mayest  become  a \nsecond  Paul. \n\nNestor,  a  good  brother,  said: — The  sun \nnever  shone  upon  me  eating. \n\nAnother  called  John  added : — Nor  upon  me \nangry. \n\nAnthony.  The  greatest  virtue  is  to  be  able \nto  observe  moderation  in  all  things. \n\nPaphnutius.  It  is  no  use  to  begin  well,  unless \nthou  dost  carry  it  through  to  a  good  end. \n\nAbbot  Moses.  Avoid  whatever  would  deprive \nthee  of  purity  of  soul,  however  good  it  may \nappear. \n\nCassian.  The  term  of  all  perfection  is  at- \ntained, when  the  soul,  with  all  its  powers,  is \ngathered  up  into  one  only  object,  God. \n\nThe  Servitor  sent  these  examples  and  say- \nings of  the  ancient  fathers  to  his  spiritual \ndaughter,  who  drank  them  all  in,  and  applied \nthem  to  herself,  as  though  he  had  meant  her \nalso  to  exercise  her  body  with  severe  chastise- \nments, after  the  austere  fashion  of  the  ancient \nfathers.  And  she  began  accordingly  to  mortify \nand  torment  herself  with  hair-shirts,  and  cords, \nand  cruel  bands  set  round  with  sharp  iron  nails, \nand  many  other  such-like  instruments  of  penance. \n\n\n174  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nBut  when  the  Servitor  became  aware  of  this, \nhe  wrote  to  her  as  follows : — Dear  daughter,  if \nthy  purpose  is  to  order  thy  spiritual  life  according \nto  my  teaching,  as  was  thy  request  to  me,  cease \nfrom  all  such  austerities,  for  they  suit  not  the \nweakness  of  thy  sex  and  thy  well-ordered  frame. \nThe  dear  Jesus  did  not  say,  Take  My  cross \nupon  you;  but  He  said  to  each,  Take  up  thy \ncross.  Thou  shouldst  not  seek  to  imitate  the \nausterity  of  the  ancient  fathers,  nor  the  severe \nexercises  of  thy  spiritual  father.  Thou  shouldst \nonly  take  for  thyself  a  portion  of  them,  such  as \nthou  canst  practise  easily  with  thy  infirm  body, \nto  the  end  that  sin  may  die  in  thee,  and  yet  thy \nbodily  life  may  not  be  shortened.  This  is  a  very \nexcellent  exercise,  and  the  best  of  all  for  thee. \n\nShe  wished  to  know  from  him  why  he  him- \nself had  practised  such  great  austerities,  and \nyet  would  not  advise  her  or  others  to  practise \nthem.  Upon  this  he  referred  her  to  the  holy \nwritings,  saying : — It  is  written  that,  in  former \ntimes,  some  among  the  ancient  fathers  led  a  life \nof  such  superhuman  and  incredible  austerity, \nthat  the  very  mention  of  it  is  a  horror  to  certain \ndelicate  persons  of  the  present  day;  for  they \nknow  not  what  burning  devotion  can  enable  a \nman,  by  the  divine  aid,  to  do  and  suffer  for \n\n\nAUSTERITIES  OF  THE  SAINTS.  175 \n\nGod.  One  who  is  filled  with  such  fervour \nfinds  all  impossible  things  become  possible  of \naccomplishment  in  God;  just  as  David  says, \nthat  with  God's  help  he  would  go  through \na  wall  (Ps.  xvii.  30).  It  is  also  written  in \nthe  book  of  the  ancient  fathers,  that  some  of \nthem  did  not  treat  themselves  with  such  great \nseverity  as  others  did,  and  yet  they  were  all \nstriving  to  reach  the  self-same  end.  St.  Peter \nand  St.  John  had  not  the  same  training.  Who \ncan  fully  explain  this  marvel,  unless  it  be \nthat  the  Lord,  who  is  wonderful  in  His  Saints, \nwills,  by  reason  of  His  high  sovereignty,  to  be \nglorified  in  many  different  ways  f  Besides  this, \nour  natures  are  not  all  alike,  and  what  is  suit- \nable to  one,  suits  not  another.  Therefore  it \nmust  not  be  thought  that,  if  perchance  a  man \nhas  not  practised  such  great  austerities,  he  will \nbe  thereby  hindered  from  arriving  at  perfection. \nAt  the  same  time,  those  who  are  soft  and  deli- \ncate should  not  despise  austerities  in  others,  or \njudge  them  harshly.  Let  each  look  to  himself, \nand  see  what  God  wants  of  him,  and  attend  to \nthis,  leaving  all  else  alone.  Speaking  generally, \nit  is  much  better  to  be  moderate  rather  than  im- \nmoderate in  the  practice  of  austerities.  But  as \nthe  mean  is  hard  to  find,  it  is  wiser  to  keep  a \n\n\n176  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nlittle  under  it,  than  to  venture  too  high  above  it ; \nfor  it  often  happens  that,  if  a  man  mortifies  his \nbodily  frame  to  excess,  he  will  have  afterwards \nto  indulge  it  to  excess ;  though  certainly  many \ngreat  Saints  have  forgotten  themselves  in  this \npoint  through  the  fervour  of  their  devotion. \nSuch  austerity  of  life,  and  the  examples  which \nhave  been  mentioned,  may  be  of  use  to  those \nwho  are  too  tender  with  themselves,  and  to  their \nown  injury  give  too  much  rein  to  their  rebellious \nbodies ;  but  this  concerns  not  thee,  nor  the  like \nof  thee.  God  has  many  kinds  of  crosses  with \nwhich  He  chastens  His  friends.  I  look  for \nHim  to  lay  another  sort  of  cross  upon  thy \nshoulders,  which  will  be  far  more  painful  to \nthee  than  these  austerities.  Accept  this  cross \nwith  patience  when  it  comes  to  thee. \n\nNot  long  afterwards  God  afflicted  the  Ser- \nvitor's spiritual  daughter  with  long  and  weary \nillnesses,  so  that  she  continued  sickly  in  body \nuntil  her  death.  She  sent  him  word  that  it \nhad  come  to  pass  with  her  as  he  had  predicted. \nUpon  which  he  wrote  in  answer  thus: — Dear \ndaughter,  God  has  not  only  afflicted  thee  ac- \ncording to  my  words,  but  He  has  also  wounded \nme  in  thee;  for  I  have  now  no  one  left  who \nwill  help  me  with  the  same  diligence  and  godly \n\n\nVISION  or  ANGELS.  177 \n\nfaithfulness  to  complete  my  little  book,  as  thou \ndidst  when  thou  wert  well.  Therefore  the  Ser- \nvitor besought  God  earnestly  on  thy  behalf, \nthat  it  might  be  His  good  will  to  give  thee  back \nthy  health ;  and  when  God  would  not  forthwith \nhearken  to  his  prayer,  he  was  angered  against \nHim  with  a  loving  anger,  and  was  minded  that \nhe  would  write  no  more  books  about  the  faith- \nful God,  and  would  likewise  leave  off  his  usual \nmorning -greeting  through  ill-humour,  unless \nGod  made  thee  well  again.  Now  when  he  had \nsat  down  in  the  disquiet  of  his  heart,  according \nto  custom,  in  his  chapel,  his  senses  were  absorbed \nin  ecstasy;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  com- \npany of  angels  came  before  him  in  the  chapel, \nand  sang  to  comfort  him  a  heavenly  song,  be- \ncause they  knew  that  at  that  time  he  was  in \npeculiar  sorrow;  and  they  asked  him  why  he \nlooked  so  sad  and  did  not  sing  with  them. \nThen  he  told  them  how  he  had  behaved  in  his \nexcess  to  the  dear  God,  because  He  would  not \nhearken  to  his  prayer  for  thy  recovery.  And \nthey  counselled  him  to  desist  from  it,  and  not \nact  thus ;  for  that  God  had  ordained  this  sick- \nness for  the  best,  and  it  would  be  thy  cross  in \nthis  world,  and  through  it  thou  wouldst  earn \ngreat  grace  here,  and  a  manifold  reward  in \nN \n\n\n178  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nheaven.  Therefore  be  patient,  my  daughter, \nand  receive  it  simply  as  a  loving  gift  from  the \nfaithful  God. \n\n\nChapter  XXXVHI. \n\nOf  certain  devout  practices  of  a  young  beginner  in  his \nearly  years. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time  the  sick  spiritual  daugh- \nter besought  the  Servitor,  who  had  come  to  see \nher  in  her  illness,  to  tell  her  something  about \nspiritual  things,  not  of  too  grave  a  kind,  but \nyet  such  as  a  godly  soul  would  hear  with  plea- \nsure. Upon  which  he  told  her  about  his  devout \npractices  in  early  life,  in  the  following  words : — \n\nAs  the  Servitor  was  in  his  youth  of  a  lively \ntemperament,  he  made  it  a  practice  for  a  long \ntime,  whenever  he  was  bled,  to  turn  in  spirit  to \nGod  under  the  cross,  and,  lifting  up  his  wounded \narm,  to  say,  with  an  inward  sigh : — Ah,  Friend \nof  my  heart  !  remember  that  it  is  the  way \nwith  lovers  to  go  to  their  beloved  ones  at  the \ntime  of  blood-letting,  in  order  that  the  new \nblood  may  be  good.  But  Thou  knowest  well, \ndear  Lord,  that  I  have  no  beloved  one  save \nThee  alone,  and  therefore  I  come  to  Thee  to \nbless  my  wound  and  make  my  blood  good. \n\n\nYOUTHFUL  DEVOTIONS.  179 \n\nAt  this  same  season  of  his  youth,  when  his \nface  was  still  in  its  fresh  bloom  and  beauty  of \ncolour,  it  was  his  practice,  as  often  as  he  shaved \nhimself,  to  go  to  the  Lord,  and  say : — Ah, \nsweet  Lord,  if  my  countenance  and  mouth  were \nas  rosy  as  the  hue  of  all  red  roses,  Thy  Servitor \nwould  keep  them  for  Thee,  and  give  them  to \nno  one  else ;  and  though  Thou  lookest  only  to \nthe  heart,  and  regardest  little  what  is  outward, \nnevertheless,  dearest  Lord,  my  heart  offers \nThee  herein  a  love-token  in  testimony  that  it \nturns  to  Thee,  and  to  none  but  Thee. \n\nWhen  he  put  on  a  new  tunic  or  cloak,  he \nwould  first  go  to  his  usual  place  of  prayer  and \nbeseech  the  Lord  of  heaven,  who  had  provided \nhim  with  this  garment,  to  wish  him  luck  and \nhappiness  in  it,  and  to  help  him  to  wear  it  out \nin  the  fulfilment  of  His  all-lovely  will. \n\nBefore  this,  in  his  childhood,  it  had  been  his \ncustom,  when  the  beautiful  summer  came  and \nthe  tender  flowrets  first  began  to  spring  up, \nnever  to  pluck  or  touch  a  flower  until  he  had \ngreeted  with  the  gift  of  his  first  flowers  his \nspiritual  love,  the  sweet,  blooming,  rosy  maid, \nGod's  Mother.  When  it  seemed  to  him  that \nthe  time  for  doing  this  had  come,  he  picked  the \nflowers  with  many  loving  thoughts,  and,  carry- \n\n\n180  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ning  tliem  to  his  cell,  made  a  garland  of  them ; \nand  then  he  went  into  the  choir,  or  into  our \nLady's  chapel,  and,  kneeling  down  very  humbly \nbefore  our  dear  Lady,  placed  the  garland  upon \nher  image,  in  the  hope  that,  as  she  was  the \nfairest  of  all  flowers,  and  the  bliss  of  summer  to \nhis  heart,  she  would  not  disdain  to  accept  these \nfirst  flowers  from  her  Servitor. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  when  he  had  thus \ncrowned  the  all-lovely  one,  it  seemed  to  him  in \na  vision  that  heaven  was  opened,  and  he  saw \nthe  bright  angels  ascending  and  descending  in \nshining  garments.  He  heard  likewise  in  the \ncourt  of  heaven  the  blissful  attendants  singing \nthe  loveliest  song  which  was  ever  heard.  But \nchiefly  they  sang  a  song  about  our  dear  Lady, \nwhich  rang  so  sweetly  that  his  soul  melted \nwithin  him  from  excess  of  rapture,  and  it  was \nlike  what  is  sung  of  her  in  the  sequence  on  All- \nSaints  day,  \"  Illic  regina  virginum,  transcen- \ndens  culmen  ordinum,  etc. ;\"  which  means, \nthat  the  pure  Queen  soars  high  above  all  the \nheavenly  host  in  honour  and  dignity.  He  too \nbegan  to  sing  with  the  heavenly  company,  and \nit  left  behind  in  his  soul  a  great  savour  of \nheaven  and  longing  after  God. \n\nOnce,  at  the  beginning  of  May,  he  had, \n\n\nYOUTHFUL  DEVOTIONS.  181 \n\naccording  to  Ms  custom,  placed  with  great  de- \nvotion  a   garland   of  roses   upon   his   loveliest \nheavenly  Lady ;  and  that  same  morning  early, \nas  he  had  come  from  a  distance  and  was  tired, \nhe  intended  to  allow  himself  a  longer  sleep,  and \nto  omit  his  usual  greeting  to  the  Virgin  at  the \nproper  hour.     Now  when  the  time  had  come \nfor  him  to  greet  her,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  and \nhe  should  have  got  up,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if \nhe  were  in  the  midst  of  a  heavenly  choir,  and \nthat  they  were  singing  the  Magnificat  in  praise \nof  God's  Mother.     When   it   was   ended,   the \nVirgin   came   forward,   and   bade   the   brother \nbegin   the   verse,    \"  O   vernalis    rosula,   etc. ;\" \nwhich   signifies,    O   thou   lovely  little   rose   of \nsummer.     He  thought  within  himself  what  she \ncould  mean  by  this,  and  yet,  wishing  to  obey \nher,  he  began  in  joyous  mood,  \"  O  vernalis  ro- \nsula.\"    Whereupon  immediately  three  or  four \nyouths   of  the   heavenly   company,   who  were \nstanding  there  in  choir,  began  to  sing  with  him, \nand  then  the  rest  of  the  choir  took  up  the  strain, \nas  if  in  rivalry,  and  they  sang  so  merrily,  that \nthe  sound  rang  out  as  sweetly  as  if  all  stringed \ninstruments   were    resounding    there   together. \nBut  his  mortal  frame  could  not  bear  this  excess \nof  melody,  and  he  came  to  himself  again. \n\n\n182  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nOn  the  day  after  our  Lady's  feast  of  the \nAssumption,  he  was  once  more  shown  a  vision \nof  great  joy  in  the  court  of  heaven.     But  no \none  was  allowed  to  enter  in  who  was  not  worthy \nto  be  present  there.     Now  when  the  Servitor \nwas  very  anxious  to  press   in,  there   came   a \nyouth  who  caught  him  by  the  hand,  saying : — \nIt  is  not  for  thee  to  enter  in  at  present.     Thou \nhast  done  wrong,  and  must  expiate  thy  misdeed, \nbefore  thou  wilt  be  allowed  to  hear  the  song  of \nheaven.     Then  he  led  him  by  a  crooked  path \ninto  an  underground  hole,  which  was  dark  and \ndesolate,  and  very  miserable  to  look  at.     The \nServitor  could  not  move  in  it  either  to  the  one \nside  or  to  the  other;  but  he  lay  there  like  a \nman  in  a  dungeon,  who  cannot  see  either  the \nsun  or  the  moon.     This  was  a  sore  suffering \nto  him,  and  he  began  to  bemoan  and  lament \nhimself  on  account  of  his  imprisonment.     Soon \nafterwards  the  youth  came  back,  and  asked  him \nhow  it  fared  with  him.    The  Servitor  answered: \n— Very  ill.     Then  the    youth  said  to  him : — \nKnow  that  the  sovereign  Queen  of  Heaven  is \nangry  with  thee  on  account   of  the  fault   for \nwhich  thou  art  lying  here  in  prison.     The  Ser- \nvitor was  greatly  terrified  at  this,  and  said : — \nWoe  is  me !  utterly  miserable  that  I  am,  what \n\n\nTHE  QUEEN  OF  HEAVEN.  183 \n\nhave  I  done  to  her?  He  answered: — She  is \nangry  with  thee  for  being  so  unwilling  to  preach \nabout  her  on  her  festivals,  and  because  yester- \nday on  her  great  festival  thou  didst  refuse  thy \nsuperior's  request,  saying  that  thou  wouldst  not \npreach  about  her.  The  Servitor  made  answer: \n— Alas,  my  friend  and  master !  it  seems  to  me \nin  truth  that  she  is  worthy  of  far  greater  honour \nthan  what  I  can  give  her,  and  that  I  am  of  too \nlittle  account  to  undertake  this  office.  There- \nfore I  yield  it  up  to  those  who  are  old  and \nworthy;  for  methinks  they  can  preach  more \nworthily  about  her  than  I,  poor  man,  can. \nTo  this  the  youth  replied :  —  Know  that  it \npleases  her  to  receive  this  honour  from  thee, \nand  it  is  an  acceptable  service  from  thee  in  her \neyes.  Therefore  refuse  no  more.  The  Servitor \nbegan  to  weep,  and  said  to  the  youth : — Ah, \ndearest  youth !  make  my  peace  with  the  pure \nMother,  for  I  promise  thee  by  my  troth  that \nit  shall  not  happen  again.  The  youth  smiled, \nand  consoled  him  lovingly,  and  led  him  home \nout  of  the  prison,  saying : — I  have  observed, \nfrom  the  kindly  way  in  which  the  Queen  of \nHeaven  looked  at  and  spoke  of  thee,  that  she \nwill  lay  aside  her  anger  against  thee,  and  will \nalways  love  thee  with  a  mother's  faithful  love. \n\n\n184  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nIt  was  the  Servitor's  practice  when  he  left \nhis  cell,  or  returned  to  it,  to  pass  through  the \nchoir  before  the  Sacrament;  for  he  thought \nwithin  himself  that  he  who  has  a  very  dear \nfriend  any  where  upon  his  road,  is  very  glad  to \nmake  his  journey  a  little  longer  in  order  to  hold \nsome  loving  converse  with  him. \n\nA  man  once  asked  God  to  bestow  upon  him \na  heavenly  carnival,  as  he  did  not  wish  for  an \nearthly  one  from  creatures.  And  while  his \nsenses  were  stilled  in  ecstasy,  it  seemed  to \nhim  as  if  the  dear  Christ  came  in,  under  the \nform  which  He  wore  when  He  was  thirty  years \nof  age,  and  signified  to  him  that  He  would  grant \nhim  his  request,  and  make  for  him  a  heavenly \ncarnival.  Then  He  took  a  cup  of  wine  in  His \nhand,  and  presented  it  to  three  men,  who  were \nsitting  there  at  table,  one  after  the  other.  The \nfirst  sank  down  powerless  ;  the  second  also \nbecame  a  little  faint;  but  the  third  was  not \naffected  by  it.  Upon  this  the  Lord  explained  to \nhim  the  difference  between  a  beginner,  a  pro- \nficient, and  a  perfect  man, — how  unlike  they \nare  in  the  way  in  which  they  bear  themselves \nin  spiritual  sweetness. \n\nWhen  the  Servitor  had  finished  conversing \nwith   his   spiritual   daughter   about   these   and \n\n\nHE  DRAWS  SINNERS  TO  GOD.  185 \n\nsuch-like  divine  endearments,  she  wrote  it  all \ndown  secretly,  and  then  placed  it  in  a  box,  which \nshe  locked  up  for  concealment  and  security. \n\nNow  one  clay  there  came  to  her  a  good \nsister,  to  whom  she  had  given  the  box  in \ncharge,  saying : — Dear  sister,  what  is  this  mar- \nvellous heavenly  secret  which  thou  hast  in  thy \nbox !  I  dreamed  this  night  that  there  was  in \nthy  box  a  young  heavenly  boy,  and  that  he  had \na  sweet  stringed  instrument  in  his  hands,  from \nwhich  he  drew  such  ravishing  spiritual  melodies, \nthat  it  filled  many  a  one  with  spiritual  delight. \nI  pray  thee  bring  forth  for  us  what  thou  hast \nlocked  up,  that  we  too  may  read  it.  But  she \nkept  silence,  and  would  not  speak  to  her  about \nit,  for  it  had  been  forbidden  her. \n\n\nChapter  XXXIX. \n\nHow  he  drew  light-minded  persons  to  God,  and  comforted \nthose  who  were  in  suffering. \n\nThe  Servitor  had  once  been  a  long  time \nwithout  sending  any  message  to  his  spiritual \ndaughter.  Upon  this  she  wrote  a  letter  to  him, \ntelling  him  that  she  was  in  great  need  of  a \nmessage  from  him  to  cheer  her  suffering  heart, \n\n\n186  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  adding : — The  poor  find  a  little  consolation \nwhen  they  see  those  who  are  poorer  than  them- \nselves, and  sufferers  draw  a  little  courage  from \nhearing  that  some  among  their  neighbours  have \nbeen  in  greater  straits  than  they  are,  and  have \nbeen  helped  out  of  them  by  God. \n\nThe  Servitor  wrote  thus  to  her  in  answer: — \nIn  order  that  thou  mayest  be  more  patient  in \nthy  sufferings,  I  will  tell  thee  for  God's  glory \nsomething  about  suffering.  I  know  a  man  on \nwhom  by  God's  appointment  there  fell  cruel \nsufferings  in  regard  to  his  good  name  in  this \nworld.  This  man's  unceasing  desire  was  to \nlove  God  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart, \nand  to  win  all  persons  to  the  same  love  of  God, \nand  to  withdraw  them  from  all  vain  affections ; \nand  he  brought  this  about  in  the  case  of  many, \nboth  men  and  women.  Since,  however,  by \ndoing  this  he  estranged  from  the  devil  those \nwho  had  been  his,  and  brought  them  back  to \nGod,  the  evil  spirit  took  it  ill,  and  appeared \nto  certain  holy  persons,  and  threatened  that  he \nwould  avenge  himself  on  the  Servitor. \n\nIt  happened  once  that  the  Servitor  came  to \na  monastery  belonging  to  a  certain  Order  in \nwhich  the  religious  men  are  accustomed  to  have \na  special  dwelling-place  for  themselves,  and  the \n\n\nHE  DRAWS  SINNERS  TO  GOD.  187 \n\nreligious  women  of  the  Order  likewise  a  special \ndwelling-place  for  themselves.  Now  in  this \nmonastery  there  were  two  religious,  a  man  and \na  woman,  who  were  bound  to  each  other  by \nclosest  ties  of  great  affection  and  hurtful  inti- \nmacy ;  and  the  devil  had  so  disguised  it  to  their \nblinded  hearts,  that  they  looked  upon  the  mis- \ndeed as  if  it  were  no  fault  or  sin,  but  a  thing \npermitted  to  them  by  God.  When  the  Servitor \nwas  privately  asked  whether  they  could  go  on  in \nthis  way  without  being  in  opposition  to  God's \nwill,  he  answered : — No,  by  no  means ;  and  he \ntold  them  that  their  view  of  the  matter  was \nfalse,  and  contrary  to  Christian  doctrine;  and \nhe  succeeded  in  making  them  leave  off  their \nintimacy,  and  live  thenceforward  in  purity. \nWhilst  he  was  occupied  about  this  matter,  a \nholy  person  named  Anna  was  rapt  in  spirit \nwhen  she  was  at  prayer,  and  she  saw  a  great \nband  of  devils  gathered  together  in  the  air \nabove  the  Servitor,  and  they  all  cried  aloud \nwith  one  voice : — Death,  death,  to  the  wicked \nmonk!  and  they  reviled  and  cursed  him  for \nhaving  driven  them  forth  by  his  good  counsels \nfrom  that  place  which  was  so  pleasant  to  them ; \nand  they  all  swore,  with  horrible  gestures,  that \nthey  would  never  let  him  alone  until  they  had \n\n\n188  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nrevenged  themselves  upon  him ;  and  that  if  they \nwere  not  allowed  to  touch  him  in  his  person  or \nhis  goods,  they  would  at  least  inflict  cruel  in- \njury upon  his  good  name  and  honour  in  men's \neyes,  by  laying  shameful  things  to  his  charge ; \nand,  however  carefully  he  might  avoid  giving \nany  cause  for  it,  they  would  by  falsehood  and \ncunning  bring  it  about.  The  holy  woman \nAnna  was  greatly  terrified  at  this,  and  she  be- \nsought our  dear  Lady  to  come  and  help  him  in \nhis  impending  straits.  Upon  which  the  kind \nMother  said  to  her  lovingly : — They  can  do \nnothing  to  him  without  my  Child's  ordinance. \nWhat  He  ordains  concerning  him  will  be  the \nbest  and  the  most  profitable  for  him.  Bid  him \ntherefore  be  of  good  cheer. \n\nWhen  she  told  this  to  the  brother,  he  began \nto  feel  great  alarm  at  this  hostile  assembling  of \nthe  evil  spirits ;  and,  as  he  often  used  to  do  in \nhis  distresses,  he  ascended  the  hill  on  which  a \nchapel  stands  dedicated  to  the  holy  angels,  and \nhe  went  nine  times  round  this  chapel,  according \nto  his  custom,  saying  prayers  in  honour  of  the \nnine  choirs  of  the  heavenly  host,  and  he  be- \nsought them  earnestly  to  be  his  helpers  against \nall  his  enemies.  Early  that  same  morning  he \nwas  earned  in  a  spiritual  vision  to  a  beautiful \n\n\nHE  DRAWS  SINNERS  TO  GOD.  189 \n\nplain,  and  lie  saw  there  all  round  him  an  ex- \nceeding great  company  of  angels,  who  stood \nready  to  help  him,  and  they  comforted  him, \nsaying : — God  is  with  thee,  and  will  never  leave \nthee  in  any  of  thy  straits.  Cease  not,  then,  to \ndraw  worldly  hearts  to  the  love  of  God.  This \nconfirmed  him  in  his  purpose,  and  he  busied \nhimself  all  the  more  diligently  in  bringing  back \nboth  the  wild  and  the  tame  to  God. \n\nHe  had  succeeded  by  his  good  words  in \ncoming  round  a  ferocious  man,  who  had  been \neighteen  years  without  confession.  This  man \nwas  inspired  by  God  with  confidence  in  the \nServitor,  and  confessed  to  him  with  such  great \ncontrition,  that  they  both  began  to  weep.  He \ndied  soon  afterwards,  and  made  a  happy  end. \n\nHe  once  converted  twelve  sinful  women  from \ntheir  evil  life.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  how  much \nhe  suffered  from  them.  In  the  end,  however, \nonly  two  of  them  persevered. \n\nThere  were  at  that  time  up  and  down  the \ncountry  many  persons  of  the  female  sex,  both \nsecular  and  religious,  who  from  the  frailty  of \ntheir  disposition  had  fallen  openly  into  sinful \npractices.  These  poor  women  through  shame \ndared  not  confess  to  any  one  their  heart's  an- \nguish ;  so  that  from  agony  and  distress  of  mind \n\n\n190  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthey  were  often  assailed  by  the  temptation  to \ndestroy  themselves.  Now  when  these  persons \nheard  that  the  Servitor  had  a  tender  heart  for \nall  who  were  in  suffering,  they  took  courage  and \ncame  to  him, — each  one  at  the  time  when  her \ndistress  lay  heavy  upon  her, — and  disclosed  to \nhim  then*  anguish,  and  the  straits  in  which  they \nwere  held  captive.  When  lie  saw  these  poor \nhearts  in  such  misery  and  suffering,  he  used \nto  weep  with  them  and  console  them  lovingly. \nHe  often  risked  his  good  name  in  this  world  in \norder  to  help  them  to  recover  their  souls  and \ntheir  reputation ;  and  he  let  malicious  tongues \npass  what  judgment  on  him  they  pleased. \n\nAmong  others  there  was  a  lady  of  high  birth, \nwhose  contrition  for  her  fall  was  very  great. \nOne  day  our  Lady  appeared  to  her  and  said : — \nGo  to  my  chaplain ;  he  will  set  thee  right  again. \nShe  answered : — Alas,  Lady,  I  know  him  not. \nThe  Mother  of  Compassion  replied: — Look  here \nbeneath  my  mantle,  where  I  keep  him  under  my \nguard,  and  note  well  his  face,  that  thou  mayest \nknow  him  again.  He  is  a  help  in  need  and  a \ncomforter  of  all  who  suffer.  He  will  comfort \nthee.  The  lady  came  to  the  Servitor  from  a \nforeign  land,  and  she  recognised  his  face  as  she \nhad  seen  it  before  in  spirit,  and  she  prayed  him \n\n\nVISION  OF  SUFFERINGS.  191 \n\nto  bring  her  back  to  grace,  and  told  him  what \nhad  befallen  her.  He  received  her  very  kindly, \nand  set  her  right  again  to  the  best  of  his  ability, \naccording  as  the  Mother  of  Compassion  had  en- \njoined him. \n\n\nChapter  XL. \n\nOf  a  grievous  suffering  which  befell  him  while  thus \noccupied. \n\nSuch  was  the  way  in  which  the  Servitor \naided  many  persons  who  were  in  suffering.  But \nthe  good  work  cost  him  dear,  owing  to  the \nmartyrdom  of  sufferings  which  fell  upon  him \nin  consequence.  And  God  showed  him  these \nafflictions  when  they  were  still  future,  in  the  fol- \nlowing vision.  Once  when  he  was  travelling  he \narrived  one  evening  at  an  inn ;  and  just  before \ndaybreak  it  seemed  to  him  in  a  vision  that  he \nwas  taken  to  a  place  where  Mass  was  going  to \nbe  sung,  and  that  he  had  to  sing  it,  for  the  lot \nhad  fallen  upon  him.  The  singers  began  the \nMass  of  martyrs,  \"Multse  tribulationes  jus- \ntorum ;\"  that  is,  Many  are  the  sufferings  of  God's \nfriends.  He  was  not  pleased  at  hearing  this, \nand  would  have  been  very  glad  to  change  it, \nsaying : — How  strange  !  Why  are  you  deafen- \n\n\n192  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ning  us  with  the  martyrs  ?  Why  do  you  sing  to- \nday the  Mass  of  martyrs  ?  We  are  not  keeping \nany  martyr's  feast  to-day.  They  looked  at  him, \nand  pointing  at  him  with  their  fingers,  said : — \nGod  has  His  martyrs  now  at  this  time,  as  He  has \never  had.     Get  ready,  then,  and  sing  for  thyself. \n\nHe  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  Missal  which \nlay  before  him,  and  would  much  rather  have \nsung  the  Mass  of  confessors,  or  any  other  one \nexcept  that  of  the  suffering  martyrs ;  but  though \nhe  turned  the  book  over  and  over  again,  it  was  all \nfull  of  Masses  of  martyrs.  When  he  saw  that  it \ncould  not  be  otherwise,  he  sang  with  them,  and \nhis  singing  rang  forth  exceeding  mournfully. \nAfter  a  little  while  he  began  again,  and  said \nto  them : — This  is  very  singular.  One  would \nmuch  rather  sing  Gaudeamus  (Let  us  rejoice) \nabout  joyful  things,  than  sing  as  we  are  do- \ning about  sorrowful  things.  They  answered : — \nGood  friend,  thou  dost  not  understand  it  yet. \nThis  song  about  the  martyrs  goes  first,  and  then \nwhen  the  proper  time  has  come  the  joyous  song \nGaudeamus  follows  after  it. \n\nWhen  he  came  to  himself  again  his  heart \ntrembled  within  him  because  of  the  vision,  and \nhe  said: — Alas,  O  God!  must  I  once  more \nsuffer  martyrdom  !     In  consequence  of  this  his \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      193 \n\ndemeanour  became  so  sorrowful  as  lie  journeyed \nonwards,  that  his  companion  asked  him,  say- \ning : — Ah !  father,  what  is  the  matter  with  you, \nthat  you  look  so  exceeding  sorrowful  ?  He  an- \nswered : — Alas !  dear  companion,  I  have  to  sing \nhere  the  Mass  of  martyrs.  Meaning,  that  God \nhad  made  known  to  him  that  he  had  a  martyr- \ndom to  suffer.  But  his  companion  understood \nhim  not ;  so  he  remained  silent,  and  kept  it  all \nwithin  himself. \n\nOn  his  arrival  at  the  town,  which  took  place \nin  the  dark  days  before  Christmas,  he  was,  as \nusual,  so  sorely  visited  with  bitter  sufferings  that \nit  seemed  to  him,  as  the  saying  is,  that  his  heart \nwithin  his  body  must  break,  if  such  a  thing \nhas  ever  happened  to  those  in  sorrow.  For \nthese  sufferings  hedged  him  round  on  all  sides, \nand  it  was  his  sad  lot  to  have  every  thing  taken \nfrom  him  which  had  been  a  support  to  him  in  the \nway  of  service,  consolation,  or  honour,  and  which \nwas  of  a  nature  calculated  to  comfort  a  man \nhere  below.  This  bitter  suffering  was  of  the \nfollowing  kind:  Among  those  persons  whom \nhe  had  tried  to  lead  to  God  there  came  to  him \na  deceitful  crafty  woman,  who  under  an  out- \nwardly good  life  concealed  a  wolfish  heart, \nwhich  she  hid  so  well  that  the  brother  for  a \no \n\n\n194  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nvery  long  time  did  not  perceive  it.  She  had  be- \nfore this  fallen  into  great  sin  with  a  man,  and \nhad  added  to  her  crime  by  attributing  the  off- \nspring to  a  different  person  from  the  guilty  man, \nwho  protested  his  own  innocence  in  the  matter. \n\nThe  Servitor  did  not  reject  the  woman  on \naccount  of  her  misdeeds ;  but  he  heard  her  con- \nfession, and  helped  her  in  all  needful  and  proper \nways,  more  than  it  was  the  custom  of  the  other \nreligious  of  the  country,  who  are  called  Ter- \nminerer  (mendicants),  to  do.  ,  After  this  had \ngone  on  for  a  long  time,  it  came  to  the  knowledge \nof  the  Servitor,  and  of  other  reliable  persons, \nthat  she  was  still  secretly  continuing  the  same \nevil  practices  as  before.  He  said  nothing  about \nit,  and  would  have  gladly  avoided  making  it \nknown ;  at  the  same  time  he  gave  up  his  rela- \ntions with  her  and  ceased  to  help  her.  When \nthe  woman  became  aware  of  this,  she  sent  him \nword  not  to  act  thus ;  and  threatened  him  that, \nif  he  left  off  giving  her  the  same  assistance  as \nheretofore,  he  should  suffer  for  it ;  for  that  she \nwould  father  upon  him  a  child,  which  she  had \nhad  by  a  secular  man,  and  he  would  thus  be \nput  to  shame  by  means  of  the  child  and  be \ncovered  with  infamy  every  where. \n\nThe  Servitor  was  filled  with  consternation \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      195 \n\nat  these  words,  and  stood  motionless;  then, \nsighing  inwardly,  he  spoke  thus  within  himself : \n— Anguish  and  distress  surround  me  on  all \nsides,  and  I  know  not  which  way  to  turn ;  for \nif  I  act  in  this  way,  woe  is  me,  and  if  I  do  not \nact  thus,  still  woe  is  me;  and  I  am  so  girt  round \non  all  sides  by  distress  and  woe  that  I  am  like \nto  sink  under  it.  And  thus,  with  terror  in  his \nheart,  he  waited  for  whatever  God  might  allow \nthe  devil  to  bring  upon  him.  At  last,  after \ntaking  counsel  with  God  and  himself,  he  came \nto  the  conclusion,  that  of  these  two  miserable \nalternatives  it  was  better  for  him  in  soul  and \nbody  to  abandon  the  wicked  woman  altogether, \nlet  the  consequences  to  his  good  name  be  what \nthey  might ;   and  so  he  did. \n\nThis  inflamed  her  fierce  heart  with  such \nrage  against  him,  that,  running  hither  and \nthither  to  ecclesiastics  and  seculars,  she  strove \nwith  more  than  human  wickedness  to  defame \nherself,  in  order  to  bring  suffering  upon  the \npoor  man,  and  she  told  every  one  that  she  had \nhad  a  child,  and  that  it  was  by  the  brother. \nAll  who  believed  her  words  were  greatly  scan- \ndalised at  it,  and  the  scandal  was  the  greater \nthe  wider  the  reputation  of  his  holiness  had \nspread.     All  this  pierced  him  through  to  his \n\n\n196  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nvery  inmost  heart  and  soul,  and,  being  thus \nencompassed  on  every  side  by  anguish  and \ndistress,  he  lived  absorbed  in  himself,  and  the \ndays  seemed  to  him  long  and  the  nights  miser- \nable, and  his  short  sleep  was  mingled  with  panic \nfrights.  He  used  to  look  upwards  sorrowfully  to \nGod,  and  with  deep  groans  exclaim: — Alas,  O \nGod !  my  hour  of  woe  is  come.  How  shall  I,  or \nhow  can  I,  bear  this  agony  of  heart  ?  Alas,  O \nGod,  would  that  I  had  died  before  I  ever  saw \nor  heard  of  this  misery !  Lord,  behold,  I  have \nhonoured  Thy  venerable  Name  all  the  days  of \nmy  life,  and  I  have  taught  many  persons  far \nand  wide  to  love  and  honour  it.  And  wilt  Thou \nbring  my  name  to  such  great  dishonour?  This \nis  a  sore  thing  that  I  complain  of.  Behold  how \nthe  venerable  Order  of  Preachers  must  now  be \nbrought  to  disgrace  through  me.  I  grieve  for \nthis,  and  shall  always  grieve  for  it.  Woe  is  me, \nby  reason  of  the  straits  into  which  my  heart  lias \ncome !  All  good  persons,  who  before  held  me \nin  great  honour  as  a  holy  man — a  thing  which \ngave  me  courage  to  persevere — now,  alas !  re- \ngard me  as  a  wicked  deceiver  of  the  world ;  and \nthis  pierces  and  wounds  my  heart  through  and \nthrough. \n\nWhen   the  poor   sufferer  had  spent  much \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.  197 \n\ntime  in  these  lamentations,  and  his  body  and \nvital  powers  were  wasting  away,  there  came  to \nhim  a  woman,  saying : — Good  sir,  why  do  you \nwear  yourself  away  through  this  excessive  grief? \nBe  of  good  cheer.  I  will  give  you  such  counsel \nand  assistance,  that,  if  you  will  follow  my  advice, \nyour  good  name  will  remain  uninjiued.  There- \nfore take  courage.  He  looked  up,  and  said  to \nher: — Dear  lady,  how  will  you  bring  this  to \npass?  She  answered: — I  will  take  away  the \nchild  by  stealth  under  my  cloak,  and  either  bury \nit  alive  at  night,  or  stick  a  needle  into  its  brain \nso  that  it  will  die.  Thus  the  vile  slander  will \nfall  to  the  ground,  and  you  will  keep  your  good \nname.  He  answered  in  a  voice  of  fury  : — Woe \nis  me,  wicked  murderess !  alas  for  thy  murder- \nous heart!  Wouldst  thou  thus  kill  the  guiltless \nbabe  ?  What  matter  that  its  mother  is  a  wicked \nwoman  1  Wouldst  thou  bury  it  alive  %  No,  no ; \nGod  forbid  that  such  a  crime  should  ever  be \ncommitted  through  me.  See;  the  very  worst \nthat  can  befall  me  in  this  matter  is  the  loss  of \nmy  worldly  honour;  but  if  the  worldly  honour  of \na  whole  country  depended  on  me,  I  would  rather \nsacrifice  it  to-day  to  the  everlasting  glorious  God \nthan  let  this  innocent  blood  thus  perish.  She \nreplied : — And  yet  it  is  not  your  child.     Why \n\n\n198  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthen  trouble  yourself  about  it?  Upon  which \nshe  drew  forth  a  sharp-pointed  knife,  and  said : \n— Let  me  take  it  away  out  of  your  sight,  and \nI  will  wring  its  neck,  or  stick  this  knife  into  its \nlittle  heart.  It  will  be  dead  at  once,  and  you \nwill  be  at  peace  again.  He  answered: — Silence, \nthou  unclean  and  wicked  devil.  Be  it  whose \nchild  it  may  on  earth,  it  is  still  formed  after \nGod's  image,  and  has  been  full  dearly  pur- \nchased with  the  most  precious  and  innocent \nBlood  of  Christ.  Therefore  I  will  not  that  its \nyoung  blood  be  shed  in  this  way.  The  woman \nmade  answer  to  him  impatiently: — If  you  will \nnot  let  it  be  killed,  at  least  let  me  carry  it \nsecretly  into  the  church  some  morning,  that  it \nmay  fare  with  it  as  with  other  deserted  found- \nlings ;  else  you  will  be  put  to  great  expense \nand  annoyance,  until  the  child's  bringing  up \nis  finished.  He  replied: — I  trust  in  the  rich \nGod  of  heaven,  who  has  always  provided  for  me \nhitherto,  that  He  will  provide  henceforth  for  both \nof  us.  And  then  he  added : — Go  and  bring  me \nthe  babe  very  secretly,  that  I  may  see  it. \n\nWhen  he  took  the  babe  into  his  bosom  and \nlooked  at  it,  the  babe  smiled  at  him.  Upon \nwhich,  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  he  said : — Should \nI  then  kill  a  pretty  babe  that  smiles  at  me? \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.  199 \n\nNo,  in  truth!  I  will  gladly  suffer  whatever \nmay  befall  me  through  it.  Then  turning  to \nthe  babe;  he  said: — Alas,  thou  hapless,  tender \nbabe !  thou  art  indeed  a  poor  orphan ;  for  thy \nown  false  father  has  denied  thee,  and  thy  mur- \nderous mother  has  sought  to  fling  thee  away, \nlike  an  ugly  good-for-nothing  whelp.  Well; \nsince  God's  providence  has  given  thee  to  me, \nin  such  a  way  that  I  cannot  help  being  thy \nfather,  I  will  gladly  act  as  one  towards  thee, \nand  I  will  receive  thee  from  God  and  from  no \none  else;  and  even  as  He  is  dear  to  me,  so  shalt \nthou  too  be  dear  to  me,  my  own  sweet  babe. \nAh,  child  of  my  heart !  thou  sittest  in  my  sor- \nrowful lap,  and  lookest  up  at  me  so  lovingly,  and \nyet  canst  not  speak.  Alas !  and  I  too  look  at \nthee  with  wounded  heart  and  tearful  eyes,  and \nmouth  that  kisses  thee,  and  I  bedew  thy  infant \nface  with  the  stream  of  my  hot  tears. \n\nWhen  the  pretty  boy  felt  the  great  tears  of \nthe  weeping  man  fall  so  fast  upon  his  little  eyes, \nhe  too  began  to  weep  heartily  with  him ;  and \nthey  both  wept  together.  But  when  the  Ser- \nvitor saw  the  babe  thus  weeping,  he  pressed  it \ntenderly  to  his  heart,  and  said: — Be  still,  my \ndarling !  Alas,  child  of  my  heart !  should  I \nkill  thee  because  thou   art  not  my  child,  but \n\n\n200  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmust  cost  me  dear?  Alas,  my  beautiful,  dear, \ntender  child !  I  would  not  hurt  thee ;  for  thou \nmust  be  my  child  and  God's  child;  and  so  long \nas  God  provides  me  with  but  one  single  mouth- \nful, I  will  share  it  with  thee,  to  the  glory  of \nthe  good  God ;  and  I  will  bear  patiently  what- \never may  befall  me  through  thee,  my  own  sweet \nchild. \n\nWhen  the  cruel-hearted  woman  who  had \nbefore  wished  to  kill  the  babe  heard  him  speak \nthus  tenderly  amid  his  tears,  she  was  so  deeply \nmoved  by  it  to  great  pity,  and  broke  out  into \nsuch  loud  cries  and  weeping,  that  he  was  ob- \nliged to  quiet  her,  lest  some  one  should  come, \nand  the  whole  thing  be  known.  At  length, \nwhen  she  had  wept  her  full,  he  gave  her  back \nthe  babe,  and  blessed  it,  saying : — May  the \nloving  God  bless  thee,  and  the  holy  angels \nguard  thee  from  all  evil !  And  he  bade  her \nprovide  it  with  what  was  needful  at  his  cost. \nAfterwards  the  wicked  woman,  the  child's \nmother,  set  to  work  again;  and  as  she  had \nalready  greatly  slandered  the  brother,  so  she \ncontinued  to  do  whenever  she  had  an  oppor- \ntunity of  injuring  him;  on  which  account  lie \nbecame  an  object  of  pity  to  many  pure  and \nvirtuous  souls,  and  they  often  wished  that  the \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.  201 \n\njust   God   would   take   her    away   out    of  the \nworld. \n\nIt  happened  once  that  one  of  the  Servitor's \nkinsmen  came  to  him,  and  said: — Alas,  sir, \nfor  the  great  crime  which  this  wicked  woman \nhas  committed  against  you !  God  knows,  I  will \navenge  you  on  her.  I  will  secretly  station  my- \nself on  the  long  bridge  which  goes  over  the \nwater ;  and  when  the  sacrilegious  wretch  passes \nthat  way,  I  will  throw  her  over  and  drown  her ; \nand  her  great  crime  shall  be  avenged  upon  her. \nHe  answered : — No,  my  friend;  God  forbid  that \nany  living  being  should  be  put  to  death  on  my \naccount.  God,  who  knows  all  hidden  things, \nknows  that  she  has  done  me  wrong  about  the \nchild.  Therefore  I  leave  the  matter  in  His \nhand,  either  to  slay  her  or  to  let  her  live,  ac- \ncording to  His  will.  And  I  tell  thee  that,  even \nif  I  were  willing  to  disregard  my  soul,  by  con- \nniving at  her  death,  I  would  still  honour  in  her \nthe  dignity  of  all  pure  women,  and  allow  her  the \nbenefit  of  it.  The  man  answered  very  angrily : \n— As  for  me,  I  would  as  soon  kill  a  woman  as \na  man,  if  she  had  behaved  to  me  so  villanously. \nHe  replied: — Nay;  for  that  would  be  an  act \nof  most  unreasonable  and  blameworthy  ferocity. \nThink  no  more  about  it,  and  let  all  the  suffer- \n\n\n202  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nings   fall   upon   me  which   God  wills    me.  to \nsuffer. \n\nAs  the  Servitor's  afflictions  were  continually \non  the  increase,  it  seemed  to  him  one  day, \nthrough  infirmity  of  soul,  that  his  distress  had \nreached  such  a  point  that  he  must  needs  go \nforth  in  quest  of  something  to  support  and  cheer \nhim  in  his  sufferings.  Accordingly  he  went  out \nto  seek  for  consolation,  and  he  hoped  to  meet  with \nit  especially  at  the  hands  of  two  of  his  friends, \nwho  while  he  still  sat  on  the  upper  side  of  for- \ntune's wheel  had  treated  him  as  though  they  were \nhis  true  friends  and  comrades.  It  was  from  them \nthat  he  now  sought  consolation  for  his  suffering \nheart.  Alas !  God  showed  him  in  them  both \nthat  no  dependence  is  to  be  placed  in  creatures; \nfor  he  was  more  cruelly  humiliated  by  them \nand  those  about  them  than  he  ever  was  by \nordinary  people.  One  of  these  friends  received \nthe  afflicted  brother  very  harshly,  and  turning \naway  his  face  from  him  in  anger,  behaved  to  him \nin  a  very  insulting  manner,  with  cutting  words. \nAmong  other  offensive  expressions  which  he  used \nhe  told  the  Servitor  to  cease  in  future  from  all \nfamiliarity  with  him;  for  that  he  was  ashamed  of \nhis  company.  Alas!  this  pierced  the  Servitor's \ninmost  heart ;  and  he  answered  mournfully: — O \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.  203 \n\ndear  friend,  if  by  God's  ordinance  thou  hadst \nfallen  into  the  miry  pool,  as  I  have  done,  verily \nI  would  have  sprung  in  after  thee,  and  lovingly \nhelped  thee  out  of  it.  O  misery !  it  is  not \nenough  for  thee  to  see  me  lying  before  thee  deep \nin  the  mire,  but  thou  must  needs  trample  on  me \nbesides.  Of  this  I  make  my  plaint  to  the  sor- \nrowful Heart  of  Jesus  Christ.  His  friend  bade \nhim  be  silent,  and  said  to  him  insultingly : — \nThere  is  an  end  of  you  now.  Not  only  your \npreaching,  but  your  books  too  which  you  have \nwritten,  ought  to  be  treated  with  contempt. \nThe  Servitor  answered  him  very  sweetly,  and \nlooking  up  to  heaven,  said : — I  put  my  trust  in \nthe  good  God  of  heaven  that  my  books  will \nbe  still  more  valued  and  loved  than  they  have \never  been,  when  the  appointed  time  shall  come. \nSuch  was  the  mournful  consolation  which  he \nreceived  from  his  best  friends. \n\nHitherto  in  this  town  his  necessities  had  been \nfully  supplied  by  kind-hearted  persons.  But \nwhen  these  lying  and  slanderous  tales  were \ncarried  to  them,  those  who  believed  the  false \ntalemongers  withdrew  from  him  their  help  and \nfriendship,  until  at  length,  the  truth  having  been \nmanifested  to  them  by  God,  they  returned  to \nhim  and  acknowledged  that  he  was  guiltless. \n\n\n204  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nOne  day,  when  he  had  sat  down  to  take  a \nlittle  rest,  his  bodily  senses  were  stilled  in  ecstasy, \nand  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  carried  into  a \nland  above  the  ken  of  sense.  Then  he  heard \nsomething  say  in  the  very  depths  of  his  soul : — \nHearken,  hearken,  to  a  word  of  consolation \nwhich  I  will  read  to  thee.  He  did  as  bidden, \nand  listened  attentively.  Upon  which  the  voice \nbegan  to  read  in  Latin  the  following  words  from \nthe  chapter  at  none  of  the  Vigil  of  Christmas,, \n\"Non  vocaberis  ultra  derelicta,  etc.\"  (Is.  lxii.  4); \nthat  is,  Thou  shalt  no  more  be  called  the  for- \nsaken of  God,  and  thy  land  shall  not  be  called \nthe  wasted  land.  Thy  name  shall  be,  God's \nwill  is  in  thee,  and  thy  land  shall  be  cultivated;, \nfor  the  heavenly  Father  is  well  pleased  with \nthee.  When  the  voice  had  finished  reading \nthese  words,  it  began  again  to  read  the  same \nwords  over  and  over  again  full  four  times. \n\nThe  Servitor  in  astonishment  said: — Dear \nfriend,  what  meanest  thou  by  repeating  these \nwords  so  often?  The  voice  answered: — I  do \nthis  to  strengthen  thy  confidence  in  God,  who \nwill  provide  for  the  land  of  His  friends — that \nis,  for  their  mortal  bodies — all  things  needful  to \nthem ;  and  when  what  they  require  is  withdrawn \nfrom  them  on  one  side,  He  will  make  it  up  to \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDEEED.      205 \n\nthem  on  another.  In  this  fatherly  way  the  al- \nmighty and  everlasting  God  will  deal  with  thee. \nAnd  in  truth  this  all  came  to  pass  so  manifestly, \nthat  many  a  heart  laughed  for  joy  at  it,  and \nthe  almighty  and  everlasting  God  was  praised \nby  those  who  had  before  shed  many  tears  from \ngreat  compassion. \n\nIt  fared  with  this  suffering  man  as  with  some \ndead  animal  which  has  been  knocked  about  and \ntorn  in  pieces  by  wild  beasts,  and  yet  has  some \nmarrow  left  in  it.  Last  of  all,  the  hungry  flies \nand  other  insects  settle  upon  it,  and  strip  bare \nthe  gnawed  bones,  and  carry  away  with  them \ninto  the  air  the  marrow  which  they  have  sucked \nout.  Even  so  the  Servitor  was  miserably  pulled \nto  pieces,  and  his  shame  was  carried  far  and  wide \ninto  distant  lands  by  persons  of  seeming  piety  ; \nand  they  did  this  with  good  words,  and  under \nthe  cover  of  regrets,  and  with  outward  show  of \nfriendship,  which  was  notning  but  faithlessness \nwithin.  In  consequence  of  this,  evil  thoughts \nlike  these  would  sometimes  dart  across  the  Ser- \nvitor's mind: — Alas,  dear  God!  he  who  only \nsuffers  at  the  hands  of  Jews,  and  heathen,  and \nopen  sinners,  may  contrive  to  bear  it;  but \nthese  persons  who  are  tormenting  me  so  griev- \nously have  the  appearance  of  being  Thy  good \n\n\n206  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HEKRY  SUSO. \n\nfriends,  and  therefore  it  is  so  much  more  pain- \nful. \n\nBut  when  he  came  to  himself,  and  took  a \nreasonable  view  of  it,  he  excused  them  from  all \nfault,  and  acknowledged  that  it  was  God  who \nhad  done  it  through  them,  and  that  it  was  fit- \nting he  should  suffer  thus,  and  that  Almighty- \nGod  often  orders  things  for  His  friends'  good  by \nmeans  of  His  enemies. \n\nOnce  especially,  when  he  was  suffering  from \nthese  thoughts,  it  was  said  to  him  interiorly : — \nRemember  that  Christ  the  Lord  would  not  only \nhave  His  beloved  disciple  John  and  His  faithful \nSt.  Peter  in  His  pure  company,  but  He  willed \nalso  to  endure  the  wicked  Judas  at  His  side. \nAnd  dost  thou  desire  to  imitate  Christ,  and  yet \nwill  not  endure  thy  Judas  ?  A  thought  in  answer \nflashed  at  once  across  his  mind : — Alas,  Lord !  if \na  suffering  friend  of  God  had  only  one  Judas,  it \nwould  be  bearable ;  but  in  these  times  every  cor- \nner is  full  of  Judases,  and  when  one  departs  four \nor  five  spring  up.  To  this  there  came  the  fol- \nlowing reply  within  him : — A  man  who  is  what \nhe  ought  to  be  should  not  look  on  any  Judas  as \na  Judas;  but  he  should  regard  him  as  God's \nfellow-worker,  by  whom  he  is  to  be  trained  and \npurified  for  his  good.     When  Judas  betrayed \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      207 \n\nChrist  with  a  kiss,  Christ  called  him  his  friend, \nsaying : — My  friend,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? \n\nThe  sufferings  of  this  poor  man  had  now \nlasted  a  long  time ;  but  there  was  one  very  little \nground  of  comfort,  to  which  he  clung,  and  which \nwas  all  his  support — namely,  that  the  burden \nwhich  weighed  him  down  had  not  been  brought \nbefore  the  judges  and  prelates  of  the  Order.  This \nlittle  comfort  was  speedily  withdrawn  from  him \nby  God;  for  the  Master-general  of  the  whole \nOrder  and  the  Master  of  the  German  province \nboth  came  together  to  the  town  in  which  the \nwicked  woman  had  slandered  the  pious  Servitor \nof  God.  When  the  poor  man,  who  was  living \nin  another  place,  heard  this  news,  his  heart  died \nwithin  him  utterly,  and  he  said  to  himself: — ■ \nIf  perchance  the  Masters  give  credence  to  the \nwicked  woman  against  thee,  thou  art  dead ;  for \nthey  will  condemn  thee  to  such  a  penitential \nprison,  that  it  were  better  for  thee  to  die.  He \nremained  under  the  weight  of  this  anguish  twelve \ndays  and  nights  continuously,  and  during  this \ntime  he  was  in  constant  expectation  of  this  ago- \nnising penance,  as  soon  as  they  should  arrive \nthere. \n\nOne  day,  overcome  by  the  state  of  misery \nin  which  he  was,  he  broke  out,  through  human \n\n\n208  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nfrailty,  into  unseemly  gestures  and  behaviour; \nand  in  this  sad  condition  of  his  outer  and  inner \nman  he  went  apart  from  every  one  into  a  place \nof  secrecy,  where  none  could  hear  or  see  him, \nand  he  gave  way  at  intervals  to  deep  and  re- \npeated groans.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and \nthen  streamed  down  his  cheeks.  His  distress \nwas  so  intense  that  he  could  not  remain  still, \nbut  he  would  sit  down  on  a  sudden,  and  then \nspring  up  again  and  run  up  and  down  the  room \nlike  a  man  wrestling  with  grief  and  anguish. \nThen  there  shot  through  his  heart  a  thought \nwhich  took  the  form  of  a  remonstrance,  thus : — \nAlas  !  O  everlasting  God,  what  is  Thy  purpose \nwith  me  f  Meanwhile,  when  he  was  in  this  sad \ndisordered  state,  a  voice  from  God  spoke  within \nhim,  saying: — Where  is  now  thy  detachment \nand  that  evenness  of  soul  in  weal  and  woe  which \nthou  hast  so  often  and  so  joyously  counselled  to \nothers,  whilst  thou  didst  lovingly  point  out  to \nthem  how  entirely  a  man  should  abandon  him- \nself to  God,  and  hold  fast  by  nothing? \n\nTo  this  he  answered  with  many  tears : — \nAskest  thou  me  where  my  detachment  is  ?  lea- \nther do  thou  tell  me  where  is  God's  unfathom- \nable pity  for  His  friends  ?  For  in  spite  of  it  I \nam  waiting  here  in  utter  desolation,  like  a  man \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      20$ \n\ncondemned  to  forfeit  his  life,  property,  and  hon- \nour. I  had  fancied  that  God  was  kind.  I  had \nfancied  that  he  was  a  good  and  gracious  Lord  to \nall  who  ventured  to  abandon  themselves  to  Him. \nWoe  is  me!  God  has  failed  me!  Alas!  that \nvein  of  kindness  whose  compassionate  streams \nnever  yet  ran  dry  has  run  dry  for  me,  poor  man. \nAlas!  the  kind  Heart  whose  kindness  the, whole \nworld  proclaims  has  deserted  me,  poor  man,  mis- \nerably. He  has  turned  away  from  me  His  beau- \ntiful eyes  and  His  gracious  countenance.  O \nthou  Divine  countenance !  O  thou  kind  Heart ! \nI  had  never  deemed  of  Thee  that  Thou  wouldst \nhave  cast  me  off  so  utterly.  O  fathomless  abyss, \ncome  to  my  aid,  for  I  am  altogether  undone. \nThou  knowest  that  all  my  consolation  and  re- \nliance is  in  Thee  alone,  and  in  no  one  else  on \nearth.  Oh,  hearken  to  me  this  day  for  God's \nsake,  all  ye  suffering  hearts!  See  that  no \none  take  scandal  at  my  disordered  state ;  for  so \nlong  as  detachment  was  in  my  mouth  it  was \nsweet  to  me  to  speak  of  it ;  but  now  my  whole \nheart  is  wounded  through  and  through,  and  the \ninmost  core  of  all  my  veins  and  brain  is  trans- \npierced with  anguish,  and  there  is  not  a  limb  of \nmy  body  which  is  not  tortured  and  wounded  in \nevery  part  of  it.  How  can  I  then  be  detached  ? \nP \n\n\n210  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nWhen  he  had  spent  about  half  a  day  in  this \ndisordered  state,  and  his  brain  was  quite  shat- \ntered, he  sat  still  at  last,  and,  turning  from  him- \nself to  God,  gave  himself  up  to  God's  will  in \nthese  words  : — May  it  not  he  otherwise  !  u  Fiat \nvoluntas  Tua\"  (Thy  will  be  done). \n\nAs  he  sat  thus,  with  his  senses  rapt  in  ec- \nstasy, it  seemed  to  him  in  a  vision  that  there  came \nand  stood  before  him  one  of  his  holy  spiritual \ndaughters,  who  when  she  was  yet  alive  had  often \ntold  him  that  he  would  have  many  sufferings, \nbut  that  the  everlasting  God  would  help  him  out \nof  them.  She  now  appeared  to  him,  and  tried \nlovingly  to  comfort  him ;  but  he  received  her \nconsolations  angrily,  and  charged  her  with  un- \ntruthfulness. She  smiled  at  this,  and  drawing \nnear,  offered  him  her  holy  hand,  saying : — Ac- \ncept my  Christian  troth,  hi  God's  stead,  that  lie \nwill  not  forsake  you,  but  will  help  you  to  come \nout  victorious  from  these  and  all  other  sufferings. \nHe  answered : — See,  daughter !  The  weight  of \nmy  afflictions  is  so  great,  that  I  can  no  longer \ncredit  thee,  unless  thou  givest  me  some  token \nthat  thy  words  are  true.  She  replied: — God \nHimself  will  manifest  your  innocence  to  all  good \nand  pure  hearts.  As  for  wicked  hearts,  things \nlook  to  them  according  to  the  colour  of  their  own \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      211 \n\nwickedness.  A  wise  friend  of  God  heeds  them \nnot.  Moreover,  the  Order  of  Preachers  which  you \nbewail  shall  be  the  more  pleasing  to  God  and  all \nreasonable  men,  on  your  account.  And  as  a  sign \nthat  these  words  are  true,  note  this.  The  ever- \nlasting God  will  soon  avenge  you,  and  will  let \nfall  His  wrathful  hand  upon  the  wicked  heart \nwhich  has  thus  troubled  you.  Moreover,  all  those \nwho  have  specially  abetted  her  by  their  malicious \nslanderings  will  soon  feel  His  vengeance.  Be \nsure  of  this.  The  brother  was  much  comforted \nhy  these  words,  and  waited  steadfastly  in  expec- \ntation of  how  God  would  bring  this  matter  to \nan  end. \n\nVery  soon  afterwards,  it  all  came  to  pass  ex- \nactly as  she  had  said.  For  the  monster  who  had \nthus  tormented  him  died,  and  she  died  too  by  a \nsudden  death.  And  many  others  also  among \nthose  who  had  been  the  chief  causes  of  his  suf- \nferings were  snatched  hence  by  death ;  some  of \nthem  dying  insensible,  and  others  without  con- \nfession and  communion. \n\nOne  of  these  persons,  who  had  been  a  prelate, \nand  had  caused  very  great  suffering  to  the  Ser- \nvitor, appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  after  death, \nand  told  him  that  it  was  on  this  account  God \nhad  cut  short  his  life  and  term  of  office,  adding, \n\n\n212  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthat  he  would  have  to  waste  and  wither  in  pur- \ngatory for  a  long  time  as  a  penance  for  it. \n\nMany  persons  who  knew  what  had  happened, \nand  were  favourably  disposed  towards  the  Ser- \nvitor, on  seeing  this  unusual  vengeance,  and  the \ndeaths  which  God  sent  so  suddenly  upon  his  ad- \nversaries, praised  Almighty  God,  saying  : — Of  a \ntruth  God  is  with  this  good  man ;  and  we  see \nwell  that  wrong  has  been  done  him,  and  it  is  but \njust  that  he  should  henceforth  be  of  more  account \nin  the  eyes  of  reasonable  men,  and  be  looked  upon \nas  higher  in  holiness  than  if  God  had  not  visited \nhim  with  these  sufferings. \n\nMoreover,  the  prelate  of  the  German  province \nexculpated  him,  saying  that  he  and  the  Master- \ngeneral  of  the  Order  had  held  a  strict  visitation \nabout  him,  as  was  fitting,  and  had  found  nothing \nagainst  him,  save  that  a  wicked  woman,  who  was \nunworthy  to  be  believed,  had  spoken  maliciously \nof  the  honest  man ;  a  thing  which  might  very \nwell  happen,  if  people  would  give  ear  to  wicked \ntongues. \n\nThus  the  kind  God  succoured  the  Servitor, \nand  very  graciously  caused  this  terrible  storm  of \nsuffering  to  subside  and  pass  away,  according  as \nthe  holy  daughter  in  the  vision  had  told  him  for \nhis  consolation.     And  he  often  thought  within \n\n\nHE  IS  CRUELLY  SLANDERED.      213 \n\nhimself : — Ah,  Lord,  how  true  the  words  are \nwhich  are  said  of  Thee :  He  to  whom  God  wishes \nwell  can  be  harmed  by  no  one  ! \n\nThe  friend,  also,  who  behaved  to  him  in \nsuch  an  unfriendly  way  was  shortly  afterwards \ntaken  hence  by  God.  After  his  death,  when \nall  the  hindrances  which  had  delayed  him  from \nbeholding  God  face  to  face  had  been  removed, \nhe  appeared  to  the  Servitor  in  golden  garments \nradiant  with  light,  and  embracing  him  lovingly, \npressed  his  face  tenderly  against  his  cheeks  and \nbesought  his  pardon  for  all  the  wrong  he  had \ndone  him,  and  prayed  him  that  a  true  heavenly \nfriendship  might  continue  between  them  ever- \nlastingly. The  Servitor  accepted  this  proposal \nwith  joy,  and  embraced  him  in  turn  very  lovingly; \nupon  which  he  vanished  out  of  sight,  and  entered \nagain  into  the  bliss  of  God. \n\nAfterwards,  when  the  appointed  time  had \ncome,  God  gladdened  the  sufferer  in  return  for \nall  his  sufferings  with  inward  peace  of  heart,  still \nrepose,  and  bright  illuminations  of  grace;  so  that \nhe  praised  God  with  all  his  heart  for  the  past \nsuffering,  saying  that  he  would  not  take  the \nwhole  world  not  to  have  suffered  it  all.  More- \nover, it  was  given  to  him  to  see  clearly  that  by \nthis  crushing  blow  he  had  been  in  a  more  noble \n\n\n214  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENPwY  SUSO. \n\nfashion  drawn  out  of  himself  and  transported \ninto  God  than  by  all  the  manifold  sufferings \nwhich  he  had  endured  from  his  youth  upwards \nuntil  then. \n\n\nChaptek  XLI. \n\nOf  interior  sufferings. \n\nWhen  the  Servitor's  spiritual  daughter  had \nread  the  account  of  the  grievous  sufferings  just \nrelated,  and  had  shed  many  tears  over  it  through \npity,  she  prayed  him  to  explain  to  her  in  the \nnext  place  what  is  the  nature  of  interior  suf- \nferings ?  He  answered : — I  will  tell  you  two \nthings  about  interior  sufferings.  There  was  a \nman  of  high  position  in  a  certain  Religious \nOrder  on  whom  God  had  laid  an  interior  suffer- \ning; and  the  poor  brother's  heart  and  spirits \nwere  so  overwhelmed  by  it,  that  he  ceased  not \nnight  and  day  from  tears  and  cries  and  lamen- \ntations. At  length  he  came  with  great  devotion \nto  the  Servitor  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  and  told \nhim  his  distress,  and  besought  him  to  pray  to \nGod  for  him  that  he  might  be  delivered. \n\nEarly  one  morning,  when  the  Servitor  was \nsitting  in  his  chapel  and  praying  for  the  brother,, \nhe  saw  the  evil  spirit  come  and  stand  before \n\n\nINTERIOR  SUFFERINGS.  215 \n\nhim,  under  the  form  of  a  hideous  Moor,  with \neyes  of  fire  and  a  terrific  hellish  look,  and  with \na  how  in  his  hand.  The  Servitor  said  to  him : \n— I  adjure  thee  hy  the  living  God  to  tell  me \nwho  thou  art,  and  what  thou  wantest  here. \nHe  answered  in  a  very  fiendish  fashion  :  —  I \nam  \"  Spiritus  BlasphemiaB\"  (the  Spirit  of  Blas- \nphemy), and  thou  shalt  soon  know  what  I  want. \n\nThe  Servitor  turned  towards  the  door  of  the \nchoir,  and,  as  he  did  this,  the  suffering  brother \ncame  in  by  the  same  door  on  his  way  to  the \nchoir  for  Mass.  Thereupon  the  evil  spirit  drew \nhis  bow  and  shot  a  fiery  arrow  into  the  brother's \nheart,  so  that  he  almost  fell  backwards,  and \ncould  not  come  into  the  choir.  The  Servitor \nwas  greatly  pained  at  this,  and  severely  re- \nproved the  devil  for  it.  On  which  the  proud \nfiend  became  exceeding  wroth  with  him,  and \ndrawing  the  bow  once  more,  with  a  fiery  arrow \nupon  it,  tried  to  shoot  him  also  through  the \nheart.  But  the  Servitor  turned  quickly  to  our \ndear  Lady  for  help,  saying : — \"  Nos  cum  prole \npia  benedicat  Virgo  Maria\"  (0  Virgin  Mary, \nbless  us  with  thy  gentle  Babe);  and  immediately \nthe  devil's  strength  left  him,  and  he  vanished \nout  of  sight. \n\n\"When  morning  came,  the  Servitor  related \n\n\n216  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENHY  SUSO. \n\nwhat  lie  had  seen  to  the  suffering  brother,  and \nconsoled  him,  and  at  the  same  time  told  him \nthe  remedies  which  would  be  of  avail,  as  they \nare  set  forth  in  the  sermon  of  his  which  begins : \n; — \"  Lectulus  noster  floridus,  etc.\" \n\nAmong  the  many  persons  afflicted  with \ninterior  sufferings  who  sought  his  help,  there \nonce  came  to  him  a  secular  man  from  a  foreign \ncountry,  saying: — Sir,  I  have  within  me  the \ngreatest  of  all  sufferings  which  a  man  ever  had, \nand  no  one  can  help  me.  A  little  while  ago \nI  despaired  of  God,  and  I  was  so  despondent, \nthat  through  excess  of  anguish  I  resolved  to \ndestroy  myself,  and  kill  both  body  and  soul.  In \nthis  agony  of  mind,  just  as  I  was  on  the  point \nof  springing  into  a  raging  torrent,  and  had \nalready  taken  a  run  with  the  deliberate  purpose \nof  drowning  myself,  I  heard  a  voice  above  me \nsay,  \"Stop!  stop!  Put  not  thyself  to  this  shame- \nful death:  seek  a  friar  preacher.\"  And  the \nvoice  named  you  to  me  by  your  name,  which  I \nhad  never  heard  before,  and  it  said,  u  He  will \nhelp  you  and  set  you  right.\"  I  was  full  of  joy \nat  this,  and  gave  up  the  thought  of  killing \nmyself;  and  I  have  sought  you  out  by  asking \nafter  you,  as  I  was  bidden.  When  the  Servitor \nsaw  the  miserable  state  in  which  the  man  was, \n\n\nTHE  BENEFITS  OF  SUFFERING.     217 \n\nhe  turned  lovingly  to  the  poor  sufferer,  and \ncomforting  him,  made  his  heart  light,  and  taught \nhim  what  to  do  in  order  to  avoid,  by  God's  help, \nfalling  again  into  such  a  temptation. \n\n\nChapter  XLII. \n\nWhat  sufferings  are  the  most  useful  to  men,  and  bring \nmost  glory  to  God  1 \n\nThe  holy  daughter  asked  him,  saying: — I \nwould  gladly  know  what  kind  of  sufferings  are, \nabove  all  others,  most  useful  to  men,  and  bring \nmost  glory  to  God.  He  answered  as  follows : — \nThou  must  know  that  there  are  many  kinds  of \nsufferings  by  which  a  man  is  disciplined  and  set \nforward  on  the  road  to  bliss,  if  only  he  can  use \nthem  rightly.  Sometimes  God  sends  heavy \nsufferings  on  a  man  without  any  fault  of  his, \neither  to  try  how  firm  he  stands,  or  to  show  him \nwhat  he  is  in  himself,  as  we  often  read  in  the \nOld  Testament ;  or,  again,  merely  to  manifest \nHis  own  glory,  as  is  related  in  the  Gospel  about \nthe  man  born  blind  whom  Christ  the  Lord  de- \nclared to  be  without  fault,  and  restored  to  sight. \n\nOn  the  other  hand,  there  are  some  sufferers \nwho  well  deserve  their  sufferings,  as  the  thief \ndid  who  was  crucified  with  Christ  the   Lord, \n\n\n218  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  to  whom  Christ  gave  everlasting  bliss  be- \ncause of  his  trne  conversion  to  Him  amid  his  suf- \nferings. There  are  others,  again,  who  are  guilt- \nless in  regard  to  the  particular  thing  for  which \nthey  are  at  the  moment  suffering,  but  yet  there \nis  something  else  faulty  in  them,  on  account  of \nwhich  God  makes  them  suffer ;  just  as  it  often \nhappens  that  Almighty  God  crushes  haughty \narrogance,  and  brings  persons  of  this  description \nto  themselves  by  letting  their  pride  and  super- \nciliousness meet  with  a  heavy  fall  in  things  in \nwhich,  perhaps,  they  are  wholly  and  entirely \nfree  from  guilt.  Again,  God  sometimes  sends \nsufferings  upon  men  out  of  special  love  for  them, \nto  save  them  in  this  way  from  a  still  greater \nsuffering,  as  is  the  case  with  those  to  whom  God \ngives  their  purgatory  in  this  life  by  sicknesses, \npoverty,  or  such  like,  that  so  they  may  be  de- \nlivered from  sufferings  in  the  life  to  come ;  or \nwith  those  whom  He  permits  to  be  tried  and  ex- \nercised by  fiendish  men,  that  they  may  thus  be \nsaved  from  the  sight  of  the  foul  fiend  at  death. \nThere  are  others  also  who  suffer  from  burning \nlove,  like  the  martyrs,  whose  joy  it  was  by  the \nmanifold  deaths,  whether  of  body  or  soul,  which \nthey  endured,  to  show  forth  to  the  dear  God  their \nlove. \n\n\nTHE  BENEFITS  OF  SUFFEEING.  219 \n\nBesides  all  this,  we  find  in  this  world  many \nsufferings  which  are  vain  and  without  consola- \ntion ;  such,  for  example,  as  are  undergone  by  those \nwho  make  it  their  aim  to  please  the  world  in \nworldly  things.  These  persons  purchase  hell  at \na  very  dear  price,  while,  on  the  contrary,  those \nwho  suffer  for  God  find  help  in  their  tribulations. \nAgain,  there  are  some  persons  who  are  often  in- \nwardly admonished  by  God  to  give  themselves \nto  Him  without  reserve,  because  He  wishes  to \nadmit  them  to  His  intimacy.  Now  if  they \nresist  the  call  through  negligence,  God  draws \nthem  to  Him  by  sufferings ;  and  to  whichever \nside  they  turn  in  their  endeavours  to  escape \nHim,  the  faithful  God  sends  upon  them  tem- \nporal misfortunes  and  discomfort,  and  thus  holds \nthem  by  the  hair,  that  they  cannot  get  away \nfrom  Him. \n\nThere  are  many  others  also  to  be  met  with \nwho  have  no  sufferings  except  those  which  they \nmake  for  themselves,  by  estimating  too  highly \nwhat  is  not  worthy  of  being  taken  into  account \nat  all.  Once  when  a  man  who  was  heavily \nladen  with  afflictions  chanced  to  pass  by  a  cer- \ntain house,  he  heard  a  woman  within  uttering \nvery  great  lamentations.  The  thought  came  to \nhim: — Go  in  and  comfort  the  woman  in  her \n\n\n220  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nsufferings.  Accordingly Jie  went  in  and  said : — \nDear  lady,  what  lias  happened  to  you,  that  you \nare  bewailing  yourself  thus  ?  She  answered  : \n— I  have  let  a  needle  drop,  and  cannot  find  it \nany  where.  He  turned  round,  and  thought  to \nhimself  as  he  went  out: — O  foolish  woman,  if \nthou  hadst  my  burden  on  thee  thou  wouldst  not \nweep  for  a  needle!  In  this  way  some  soft- \nnatured  persons  make  for  themselves  sufferings \nin  a  multitude  of  things  where  there  is  nothing \nto  suffer. \n\nBut  the  noblest  and  best  kind  of  suffering  is \nafter  the  pattern  of  Christ's  sufferings — I  mean \nthose  which  the  heavenly  Father  gave  to  His \nonly-begotten  Son,  and  which  He  still  gives  to \nHis  dear  and  chosen  friends.  This  must  not \nbe  taken  as  if  any  one  were  altogether  without \nfault,  except  indeed  the  dear  Jesus  Christ,  who \nnever  sinned  ;  but  it  is  to  be  understood  of  the \nexample  of  patience  which  Christ  gave  us  when \nHe  bore  Himself  in  His  sufferings  like  a  gentle \nlittle  lamb  among  wolves.  Hence  it  is  that  He \nsometimes  gives  great  sufferings  to  some  of  His \ndear  and  chosen  friends,  that  we,  who  are  so  im- \npatient under  suffering,  may  learn  patience  from \nthese  blessed  men,  and  in  every  case  by  sweet- \nness of  heart  to  overcome  evil  with  good.     All \n\n\nTHE  BENEFITS  OF  SUFFERING.  221 \n\nthis  thou  shouldst  consider,  my  daughter,  and \nbe  ready  to  suffer  without  reluctance ;  for  from \nwhatever  quarter  sufferings  come  they  can  be \nturned  to  profit,  if  only  the  sufferer  accepts  them \nall  as  sent  by  God,  and  refers  them  back  again \nto  God,  and  so  gets  the  mastery  over  them  with \nHis  help. \n\nThe  daughter  answered : — The  noblest  kind \nof  suffering,  of  which  you  spoke  last,  I  mean \nwhen  a  person  suffers  innocently,  is  the  lot  of \nfew.  Therefore  I  would  gladly  hear  how  those \nwho  for  their  sins  have  deserved  to  suffer  cany \nby  God's  help,  come  forth  victorious  from  their \nsufferings ;  for  such  persons  have  a  twofold  source \nof  pain  :  they  have  angered  the  Almighty  God, \nand  they  are  tormented  from  without. \n\nHe  replied : — I  will  tell  you.  I  knew  a  man \nwho,  whenever  he  fell  into  a  sin  through  human \nfrailty,  used  to  do  like  a  good  washerwoman,  who \ntakes  the  clothes,  when  she  has  steeped  and  soft- \nened them,  to  the  pure  spring,  and  there  by  wash- \ning makes  every  thing  clean  and  fresh  which  be- \nfore was  dirty.  Even  so  this  man  would  never \nrest  until  some  of  the  innocent,  down-trickling \nBlood  of  Christ,  which  the  Lord  shed  with  un- \nspeakable love,  that  it  might  be  a  help  and  com- \nfort to  all  sinners,  had  been  spiritually  poured \n\n\n222  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nforth  iii  sufficient  measure  upon  him :  and  in \nthis  hot  Blood  he  washed  himself  and  all  his  stains \naway,  and  he  bathed  himself  in  the  healthful \nbrook  of  Blood  as  a  little  child  is  bathed  in  a \nwarm  water -bath;  and  this  he  did  with  heart- \nfelt devotion  in  a  well-grounded  Christian  faith \nthat  this  Blood  must  and  would  wash  away  all \nhis  sins,  and  cleanse  him  from  all  guilt  by  its \nalmighty  power.  In  this  way,  however  things \nmight  be,  whether  he  was  guilty  or  free  from \nguilt,  he  always  referred  them  ultimately  to  the \ngood  God. \n\n\nChapter  XLIIL \n\nHow  he  drew  certain  hearts  from  earthly  love  to  the \nlove  of  God. \n\nWhile  the  Servitor  was  occupied  in  drawing \nsouls  from  earthly  love  to  God,  he  remarked  that \nin  certain  monasteries  there  were  persons  who, \nthough  they  wore  the  religious  habit,  had  worldly \nhearts  beneath  it.  Among  others  there  was  one \nwho  had  steadfastly  fixed  her  heart  upon  a  pe- \nrishable affection,  of  a  kind  which  goes  by  the \nname  of  \"  sponsiren,\"  and  is  a  very  poison  to  all \nhappiness  in  religion.  The  Servitor  told  her  that \nif  she  wished  to  lead  a  godly  and  quiet  life,  she \n\n\nHE  WINS  SOULS  TO  GOD.  223 \n\nmust  renounce  this  practice,  and  in  place  of  her \nearthly  lover  take  the  Eternal  Wisdom  for  her \nbeloved.     This  was  a  hard  thing  for  her  to  do ; \nfor  she  was  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  completely \nentangled  in  this  kind  of  company.     Neverthe- \nless, he  brought  her  thus  far,  that  she  formed  the \ngood  resolution  to  do  it.     \"When,  however,  she \nbroke  this  good  resolution  again,  through  the  in- \nfluence of  her  friends,  he  said  to  her: — Daughter, \nleave  off  this  practice ;  for  I  tell  thee  that  if  thou \nwilt  not  do  it  cheerfully,  thou  wilt  have  to  do  it \nsorrowfully.     As  she  would  not  be  converted  by \nhis  friendly  counsels,  he  prayed  to  God  very  ear- \nnestly to  withdraw  her  from  this  affection,  cost \nher  what  it  might.     One  day  he  went  up  into \nthe  pulpit  under  the  crucifix,  as  his  wont  was, \nand  he  took  a  severe  discipline  on  his  bare  back, \nso  that  the  blood  streamed  from  it,  and  he  be- \nsought God  for  her  that  she  might  be  tamed. \nAnd  so  it  came  to  pass ;  for  immediately  upon \nher  return  home  there  grew  an  ill-shaped  hump \nupon  her  back,  which  made  her  look  hideous, \nand  thus  necessity  obliged  her  to  give  up  what \nshe  had  refused  to  renounce  for  God. \n\nIn  the  same  unenclosed  monastery,  there \nwas  a  young,  beautiful,  and  noble  maiden,  who \nhaving  been  caught  in  the  same  devil's  net,  had \n\n\n224  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nbeen  for  many  years  wearing  away  her  heart \nand  her  time  in  frivolous  light-mindedness  with \nall  kinds  of  persons ;  and  she  had  become  so \ninfatuated  in  these  practices,  that  she  always \nfled  like  a  wild  animal  from  the  Servitor  of  the \nEternal  Wisdom,  because  she  feared  that  he \nwould  order  her  to  give  up  the  kind  of  life \nwhich  she  was  leading.  Now  the  sister  of  this \nmaiden  besought  the  Servitor  to  try  his  luck \nwith  her,  and  see  whether  he  could  not  bring \nher  back  from  her  ruinous  courses  to  the  ever- \nlasting God.  This  seemed  to  him  an  impossible \nrequest,  and  he  made  answer  that,  in  his  opinion, \nit  would  be  more  possible  for  the  sky  to  fall \nthan  for  her  to  give  up  this  practice ;  and  that \nonly  death  could  take  it  from  her.  The  sister, \nhowever,  was  very  urgent  with  him  in  her \nentreaties,  saying  that  it  was  her  firm  belief \nthat  whatever  he  asked  of  the  everlasting  God \nwith  earnestness,  God  never  refused  to  him. \nAt  length  she  overcame  him  by  her  impor- \ntunities, and  he  promised  her  to  undertake  it. \n\nAs  the  maiden  always  fled  from  him,  so  that \nhe  could  never  come  to  words  with  her,  he  took \nnote  one  day,  about  the  time  of  St.  Margaret's \nfeast,  that  she  had  gone  out  with  the  other \nyoung  sisters  into  a  field  to  pick  flax.     He  stole \n\n\nHE  WINS  SOULS  TO  GOD.  22  5 \n\nafter  them,  and  went  round  the  field,  and  in  this \nway  managed  to  come  gently  up  to  her. \n\nWhen  she  perceived  that  he  was  drawing \nnear  to  her,  she  turned  her  back  upon  him  very \ninsolently,  and,  with  her  face  all  on  fire  with \nanger,  cried  out  passionately  to  him : — Sir  monk, \nwhat  mean  you  by  coming  out  here  to  me  ?  keep \nto  your  own  road,  I  advise  you ;  for  you  have \nnothing  to  do  with  me.  I  tell  you  that  I  would \nrather  have  my  head  cut  off  than  confess  to  you, \nand  I  would  sooner  be  buried  alive  than  obey \nyou  and  give  up  my  practices  (sponsiren). \n\nHer  playmate,  who  stood  next  her,  tried  to \nquiet  her;  and  reproved  her,  saying  that  the \nServitor  had  only  done  it  out  of  kindness.  But \nshe,  tossing  up  her  head  in  fury,  answered : — \nSee,  I  will  not  deceive  him;  I  wall  show  him  by \nmy  words  and  ways  what  I  have  in  my  heart. \nThe  Servitor  was  so  horror-struck  by  these \ninsolent  words  and  unseemly  gestures,  that  he \nblushed  with  shame  and  kept  silence ;  for  he \ncould  not  speak.  The  other  sisters,  who  heard \nher  outcries  against  him,  were  grieved  at  it,  and \nchid  her  sharply.  He  soon  withdrew  on  one \nside  and  left  her;  and  then  looking  upwards, \nhe  began  to  sigh  deeply,  and  would  have  given \nup  the  attempt ;  only  that  there  still  remained \nQ \n\n\n226  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENKY  SUSO. \n\nin  him  a  kind  of  interior  impulse  from  God, \nreminding  him  that  he  who  wishes  to  accom- \nplish any  thing  either  for  God  or  for  the  world \nmust  not  give  up  so  soon.  This  took  place  after \nmidday. \n\nOn  the  evening  of  that  same  day,  after  sup- \nper, the  sisters  went  in  a  body  into  the  court- \nyard to  pill  the  flax  which  they  had  gathered, \nand  the  afore-mentioned  sister  went  with  them. \nNow  they  were  obliged  to  pass  by  the  guest- \nquarters,  in  which  the  Servitor  was  staying. \nHe,  therefore,  besought  one  of  the  maiden's  play- \nmates to  contrive  to  bring  her  to  him,  and  then \nto  leave  the  room  again  herself.  This  was  man- \naged, though  with  difficulty. \n\nAs  soon  as  she  came  into  the  room  where  the \nbrother  was,  and  had  seated  herself  near  him \nunder  the  window,  he  fetched  a  deep  sigh  from \nhis  full  heart,  and  said:— Ah!  beautiful  and \ngentle  maiden,  God's  chosen  one!  how  long \nwill  you  abandon  your  beautiful  lovely  body \nand  your  tender  heart  to  the  vile  and  wicked \ndevil !  And  yet  you  are  so  richly  adorned  by \nthe  everlasting  God  with  every  grace,  that  it  is \nindeed  an  evil  tale  that  such  a  well-formed, \nnoble,  and  angelic  maiden  should  be  the  be- \nloved of  any  other  save  the  All-adorable  One \n\n\nHE  WINS  SOULS  TO  GOD.  227 \n\nalone.  Who  lias  a  greater  right  to  pluck  the \nfair  and  tender  rose  than  He  whose  own  it  is  f \nNo,  dear  lovely  maiden,  open  your  bright  fal- \ncon-eyes, and  think  of  that  beautiful  chosen \nlove,  which  begins  here  and  lasts  for  ever  and \never.  Think,  too,  what  sorrow  and  unfaithful- \nness, what  pain  and  suffering  in  body  and \ngoods,  in  soul  and  honour,  they  must  needs \nendure,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  who  pursue \nearthly  love;  only  they  are  so  blinded  by  the \nhoneyed  poison  that  they  forget  the  great  hurt \nwhich  thence  results  to  them  in  time  and  in \neternity.  Come,  then,  thou  angelic  form,  thou \nloving  noble  heart,  and  turn  thy  nature's  high \nnobility  to  Him  who  is  noble  from  eternity, \nand  cease  from  this.  I  promise  thee,  by  my \ntroth,  that  God  will  take  thee  for  His  darling, \nand  will  be  altogether  true  to  thee,  and  love \nthee  right  well,  here  and  hereafter,  everlast- \ningly. \n\nThe  moment  was  propitious.  These  fiery \nwords  shot,  as  it  were,  through  her  heart,  and \nsoftened  her  so  exceedingly,  that,  at  once  lifting \nup  her  eyes  and  sighing  very  deeply,  she  said \nto  him  these  determined  and  courageous  words : \n— Ah,  sir,  my  father !  I  surrender  myself  this \nday  to  God  and  you ;  and  from  this  hour  I  will \n\n\n228  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HEXRY  SUSO. \n\nhave  done  with  my  wild  unbridled  life,  and,  by \nyour  counsel  and  help,  I  will  give  myself  to  the \nloving  God,  to  be  His  own,  and  will  serve  Him \nonly  until  my  death.  He  answered: — This  is \nan  hour  of  gladness.  Praised  be  the  kind  Lord, \nwho  is  ready  to  receive  back  again  with  joy  all \nthose  who  return  to  Him. \n\nWhile  the  two  were  thus  conversing  toge- \nther in  private  about  God,  her  playmates  whom \nshe  had  left  stood  outside  the  door,  and  they \nwere  vexed  at  the  length  of  the  discourse,  for \nthey  feared  lest  she  should  abandon  their  light- \nminded  society.  So  they  called  out  to  her  to \nfinish  with  him.  Upon  this  she  rose  up,  and \nwent  away  with  them,  saying : — My  playmates, \nGod  bless  you!  I  bid  you  now  farewell — you \nand  all  our  comrades,  with  whom,  alas,  I  have \nwasted  my  time  so  frivolously ;  for  henceforth  I \nwill  have  no  one  but  the  faithful  God,  and  all \nelse  I  will  let  go. \n\nFrom  that  time  the  maiden  began  to  avoid \nall  hurtful  company,  and  to  keep  herself  re- \ntired; and  though  in  after  times  the  attempt \nwas  often  made  to  bring  her  back  to  her  old \nlife,  nothing  ever  came  of  it ;  and  her  conduct \ncontinued  such,  that,  in  the  enjoyment  of  an \nhonourable  reputation  and  the  practice  of  every \n\n\nHE  WINS  SOULS  TO  GOD.  229 \n\nvirtue,  she  remained  firmly  and  steadfastly  at- \ntached to  God  until  her  death. \n\nOnce,  later  on,  the  Servitor  set  forth  from \nhome  to  visit  his  new  daughter,  that  he  might \nconfirm  her  in  a  good  and  holy  life,  and  console \nher  lovingly,  if  she  were  in  any  sorrow ;  and  he \nput  himself  to  much  suffering  by  undertaking \nthe  journey  at  a  time  when  he  was  ill.  As  he \nwalked  along  in  this  state  through  the  deep \nmire,  and  climbed  over  lofty  mountains,  he  often \nlifted  up  his  eyes  to  the  living  God,  and  said : — \nMerciful  God,  be  mindful  of  the  painful  steps \nwhich  Thou  didst  take  for  man's  salvation,  and \nkeep  safe  my  child.  His  companion,  on  whom \nhe  leant  from  time  to  time,  said  to  him  in  pity : \n« — It  well  beseems  God's  goodness  that  many \nsouls  should  be  kept  safe  through  you. \n\nWhen  he  had  gone  on  until  he  could  go  no \nfurther,  but  was  quite  exhausted,  his  companion \nsaid  to  him  once  more: — Ah,  father!  God \nshould  have  considered  how  very  ill  you  are, \nand  He  should  have  sent  you  a  horse  to  ride \nupon,  until  you  come  to  where  people  are.  He \nanswered : — Well,  if  we  both  ask  God  for  it,  I \nhave  confidence  that  He  will  let  me  have  the \nbenefit  of  thy  virtue,  and  that  it  will  come  to \npa  ss. \n\n\n230  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nThen  the  Servitor  looked  round  about  him, \nand  he  saw  there  on  the  right  hand,  coming \nforth  out  of  a  wood,  a  handsome  horse,  properly \nbridled  and  saddled,  and  it  was  coming  along \nalone.  His  companion  joyfully  exclaimed: — ■ \nSee,  dear  father,  how  God  will  not  forsake  you ! \nHe  answered: — Son,  look  round  about  on  all \nsides  of  this  broad  plain,  and  observe  whether \nthere  is  any  one  to  whom  it  can  belong.  He \nlooked  far  and  near,  and  could  see  no  one,  but \nonly  the  horse  trotting  up  to  them.  Then  he \nsaid:— Of  a  truth,  father,  God  has  sent  it  to \nyou;  sit  upon  it  and  ride.  He  answered: — \nWell,  comrade,  if  the  horse  stops  still  when  it \ncomes  to  us,  I  trust  in  God  that  He  has  sent  it \nhither  for  our  necessity.  The  horse  came  up \nquietly,  and  stood  still  before  him.  He  said : — \nSo  be  it,  in  God's  name.  Then  his  companion \nhelped  him  on  the  horse  and  made  him  ride \nupon  it,  and  walked  by  his  side  for  some  dis- \ntance, until  he  was  well  rested.  When  they \ncame  near  a  village  the  Servitor  got  off,  and \nlaying  the  reins  upon  the  horse's  neck,  let  it  go \nits  way  to  the  place  from  which  it  came.  But \nwhence  it  came,  or  whose  it  was,  he  never  could \ndiscover  afterwards. \n\nWhen  the  Servitor  had  arrived  at  his  jour- \n\n\nHE  WINS  SOULS  TO  GOD.  231 \n\nney's  encl?  it  happened  one  evening  that  he  was \nsitting  with  his  spiritual  children  speaking  to \nthem  in  disparagement  of  perishable  love,  while \nat  the  same  time  he  praised  and  celebrated  to \nthem  the  excellence  of  eternal  love.  When  they \nleft  him,  his  heart  was  greatly  inflamed  with  Di- \nvine love  through  the  ardour  of  his  discourse;  for \nit  seemed  to  him  that  his  Beloved,  whom  he  both \nloved  himself  and  advised  others  to  love,  was  in- \nfinitely better  than  all  earthly  objects  of  love. \nWhile  he  meditated  on  this,  his  senses  were \nstilled  in  ecstasy,  and  it  appeared  to  him  in  a \nvision  that  he  was  carried  to  a  beautiful  green \nheath,  and  that  by  his  side  there  went  a  heavenly \nyouth  of  comely  form  and  noble  bearing,  who \nled  him  by  the  hand.  Then  the  youth  began \nto  sing  in  the  brother's  soul  a  song  which  rang \nforth  so  joyously  that  all  his  senses  took  to  flight \nbefore  the  mighty  power  of  that  sweet  melody, \nand  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  became  so \nexceeding  full  of  burning  love  and  longing  after \nGod  that  it  began  to  leap  and  rage  within  his \nbody,  as  if  it  were  on  the  point  of  breaking, \nfrom  the  intense  strain  that  was  upon  it;  and \nhe  was  forced  to  lay  his  right  hand  upon  his \nheart  as  a  relief,  and  his  eyes  became  so  full  that \nthe  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. \n\n\n232  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nWhen  the  song  was  ended,  a  picture  was \nplaced  before  him,  with  the  intent  to  teach  him \nthis  song  in  such  a  way  that  he  might  not  forget \nit.  He  looked,  and  saw  there  our  Lady  pressing \nher  Child,  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  to  her  maternal \nheart.  Over  the  Child's  head  the  beginning  of \nthe  song  was  written  in  beautiful  and  well-formed \nletters,  and  yet  the  writing  was  so  concealed \nthat  it  was  not  every  one  could  read  it.  Only \nthose  who  had  gained  the  knowledge  of  it  by \nexperience  and  spiritual  exercises  read  it  well ; \nand  the  writing  was,  \"  Heart's  darling.\" \n\nThe  Servitor  read  the  writing  rapidly ;  and \nthen  the  Babe  looked  up  and  gazed  at  him  with \nlove;  upon  which  he  felt  in  his  inmost  soul  how \ntrue  it  is  that  the  Divine  Babe  alone  is  our \nheart's  darling — the  sole  object  of  all  our  joy  and \nsorrow.  Then  he  pressed  the  Babe  to  the  very \ncentre  of  his  heart,  and  began  to  sing  with  the \nyouth  this  song  from  end  to  end.  In  these \nburning  sentiments  of  heartfelt  love  he  came  to \nhimself  again,  and  he  found  his  right  hand  lying \nupon  his  heart,  just  as  he  had  placed  it  there \nas  a  relief,  when  his  heart  was  agitated  so  vio- \nlently. \n\n\nDRINK  MULTIPLIED.  233 \n\nChapter  XLIV. \n\nHow  God  multiplied  drink  for  His  friends. \nOnce  upon  a  time  the  Servitor,  having  tra- \nvelled to  a  distance,  became  very  tired,  and  on \narriving  in  the  evening  at  a  hermitage,  where  it \nwas  proposed  to  spend  the  night,  no  wine  was  to \nbe  found  either  in  the  village  or  the  hermitage ; \nuntil  at  length,  a  certain  good  woman  came  and \nsaid  that  she  had  a  small  bottle  of  wine  left,  about \nhalf  a  quart,  adding,  \"  But  what  is  this  among  so \nmany  f*  For  they  were  in  number  about  twenty \npersons,  good  children,  together  with  those  who \nhad  come  thither  desiring  to  hear  the  word  of \nGod  from  his  mouth.  The  Servitor  told  her  to \nbring  the  bottle  and  place  it  on  the  table,  and \nthey  prayed  him  to  pronounce  a  blessing  from \nGod  upon  it.  He  did  this  in  the  mighty  power \nof  the  loving  Name  of  Jesus,  and  then  began  to \ndrink  of  it,  for  he  was  very  thirsty  from  the  jour- \nney ;  after  which  he  offered  it  to  the  others,  and \nthey  all  drank  together.  The  bottle  was  placed \nupon  the  table  openly,  in  the  sight  of  every  one, \nand  no  more  wine  or  water  was  poured  into  it, \nfor  there  was  no  other  wine  there.  They  con- \ntinued drinking  again  and  again  out  of  the  same \nbottle ;  and  they  were  so  eager  to  hear  from  him \n\n\n234  LITE  OF\"  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  word  of  God,  that  no  one  took  note  of  the \nDivine  miracle.  At  last,  when  they  came  to \nthemselves,  and  saw  God's  almighty  power  so \nmanifestly  displayed  in  the  multiplication  of  the \ndrink,  they  began  to  praise  God,  and  wished  to \nattribute  the  miracle  which  had  taken  place  to \nthe  Servitor's  holiness.  But  he  would  not  on \nany  account  suffer  this,  saying : — Children,  this \nis  not  my  doing.  God  has  permitted  this  pure \ncompany  to  reap  the  benefit  of  their  good  faithj \nand  has  given  them  drink  both  bodily  and  spi* \nritually. \n\n\nChapter  XLY. \n\nOf  certain  sufferers,  who  were  attached  to  the  Servitor  by \nspecial  ties  of  friendship  and  affection. \n\nIn  a  certain  town  there  were  two  persons  of \neminent  holiness,  both  intimate  friends  of  the \nServitor.  The  one  stood  in  high  repute  before \nthe  people,  and  abounded  in  divine  sweetnesses. \nThe  other  was  held  in  no  esteem,  and  God  ex- \nercised him  continually  with  sufferings. \n\nAfter  they  were  both  dead,  the  Servitor  wished \nmuch  to  know  what  was  the  difference  between \ntheir  rewards  in  the  next  world,  inasmuch  as  the \nroads  by  which  they  had  been  led  in  this  life  were- \n\n\nHIS  MOTHER.  235 \n\nso  unlike.  Early  one  morning,  the  one  who  had \nbeen  held  in  such  esteem  here  below  appeared \nto  the  Servitor,  and  told  him  that  he  was  still  in \npurgatory ;  and  when  asked  how  this  could  be, \nhe  replied,  that  the  only  sin  for  which  he  had  to \nsuffer  was  a  certain  spiritual  pride  which  had \nassailed  him,  through  the  high  esteem  in  which \nhe  had  been  held,  and  which  he  had  not  driven \naway  quickly  enough.  He  added,  that  his  suf- \nferings would  soon  be  at  an  end.  The  other, \nwhose  life  had  been  full  of  humiliations  and  suf- \nferings, passed  at  once  without  any  hindrance \nto  God. \n\nThe  Servitor's  mother  was  all  the  days  of  her \nlife  a  very  great  sufferer.  This  arose  from  the \npainful  dissimilarity  which  there  was  between  her \nand  her  husband.  She  was  full  of  the  Almighty \nGod,  and  her  whole  desire  was  to  live  a  spiritual \nlife.  But  her  husband  was  full  of  the  world,  and \nopposed  her  with  great  harshness  and  severity; \nand  through  this  she  had  much  to  suffer. \n\nIt  was  her  custom  to  cast  all  her  sorrows \ninto  the  bitter  sufferings  of  Jesus  Christ,  and \nin  this  way  to  get  the  mastery  over  them. \nBefore  her  death  she  confessed  to  the  Servitor \nthat  for  thirty  years  she  had  never  assisted  at \nMass  without  weeping  bitterly  from  heartfelt \n\n\n236  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ncompassion  for  the  torments  of  our  clear  Lord \nand  His  faithful  Mother.  She  told  him  also \nthat,  from  the  excessive  love  which  she  felt  for \nGod,  she  had  once  fallen  ill,  and  kept  her  bed \nfor  twelve  weeks,  longing  and  pining  for  God \nso  ardently  that  the  physicians  clearly  perceived \nit  and  were  edified  by  it. \n\nOnce,  at  the  beginning  of  Lent,  she  went  to \nthe  Cathedral,  where  the  taking  down  of  the \nLord  Jesus  from  the  cross  is  represented  in \ncarved  wood  over  an  altar.  While  she  was \nbefore  this  image  she  experienced  sensibly  the \ngreat  anguish  which  the  tender  Mother  felt \nbeneath  the  cross ;  and  so  intense  was  the  agony \nwhich  it  caused  this  good  woman,  through  com- \npassion, that  her  heart  became  sick  within  her \nbody,  and  she  sank  down  fainting  to  the  ground, \nand  could  neither  see  nor  speak.  She  was \nhelped  home,  and  lay  there  sick  until  Good \nFriday  at  none,  and  died  while  the  Passion  was \nbeing  read. \n\nHer  son,  the  Servitor,  was  at  this  time  at \nCologne,  engaged  with  his  studies.  She  ap- \npeared to  him  there  in  a  vision,  and  said  to  him \nwith  great  joy  : — Ah,  my  child !  love  God  and \ntrust  Him  well,  for  He  will  never  forsake  thee \nin  any  trouble.     See,  I  have  departed  from  this \n\n\nHIS  MOTHER,  237 \n\nworld,  and  yet  I  am  not  dead.  I  shall  live  ever- \nlastingly in  the  presence  of  the  everlasting  God. \nShe  kissed  him  in  motherly  fashion  upon  his \nmouth,  and  blessed  him  lovingly,  and  then  dis- \nappeared. He  began  to  weep,  and  cried  out \nafter  her,  saying : — O  my  true-hearted  holy  mo- \nther, be  true  to  me  in  God's  presence!  and \nthus  weeping  and  sighing,  he  came  to  himself \nagain. \n\nIn  his  young  days,  when  he  was  at  the \nplace  of  studies,  God  provided  him  once  with \na  dear  and  holy  companion.  On  one  occasion, \nwhen  they  were  alone,  and  had  conversed  to- \ngether much  and  tenderly  about  God,  the  com- \npanion besought  the  Servitor  by  the  sincerity \nof  their  friendship  to  show  him  the  lovely  Name \nof  Jesus  which  was  engraven  over  his  heart. \nThe  Servitor  was  reluctant  to  do  this;  never- \ntheless, when  he  saw  his  companion's  great  devo- \ntion, he  granted  his  request,  and  drawing  aside \nhis  habit  where  it  covered  his  heart,  let  him \nlook  at  this  jewel  of  his  heart  as  much  as  he \nwould.  The  companion  was  not  content  with \nthis ;  but  when  he  saw  the  sweet  Name  standing \nout  visibly  in  the  middle  over  the  Servitor's \nheart,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  face,  and  after \npassing  his  hand  across  it,  laid  his  mouth  upon \n\n\n238  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HEXRY  SUSO. \n\nit,  and  began  to  weep  so  heartily  from  devo- \ntion that  the  tears  ran  down  over  the  heart. \nAfter  this  the  Servitor  covered  up  the  Name, \nand  he  never  would  allow  any  one  else  to  see  it, \nsave  only  one  of  God's  chosen  friends,  to  whom \nthis  was  permitted  by  the  everlasting  God;  and \nthis  person  also  contemplated  it  with  the  same \ndevout  feelings  as  the  other. \n\nWhen  these  two  dear  companions  had  spent \nmany  years  together  in  spiritual  companionship, \nand  the  time  was  come  for  them  to  separate, \nthey  blessed  each  other  lovingly,  and  made  a \ncompact  between  them,  that  whichever  of  them \nmight  die  first,  the  survivor  should,  as  a  token \nof  their  mutual  friendship,  say  for  his  departed \nfriend  two  Masses  weekly  during  a  year;  the \none  to  be  a  Eequiem  Mass  on  the  Mondays,  and \nthe  other  a  Mass  of  our  Lord's  Passion  on  the \nFridays.  Many  years  passed  away  after  this, \nuntil  at  length  the  Servitor's  dear  companion \ndied  before  him ;  but  the  Servitor  had  forgotten \nthe  promise  about  the  Masses,  though,  without \nreference  to  it,  he  faithfully  remembered  his \nfriend's  soul  to  God.  One  morning,  as  he  sat  in \necstasy  in  his  chapel,  his  companion  appeared  to \nhim  in  a  vision,  and  said  to  him  very  piteously : — \nAlas,  friend,  how  great  is  thy  unfaithfulness  ! \n\n\nCHRIST  UNDER  THE  FORM  OF  A  SERA \n\n\nCM \n\n\nHow  hast  thou  forgotten  me  !    The  Serv \nswerecl : — And  yet  I  remember  thee  e\\ \nin  my  Mass.     His  companion  replied  :— \nnot  enough.   Fulfil  what  we  promised  about  the \nMasses,  that  some  of  the  sinless  Blood  may  thus \ncome  down  upon  me  and  quench  the  severity \nof  my  purgatory.     In  this  way  I  shall  be  soon \nset  free.    The  Servitor  accomplished  this  with  af- \nfectionate fidelity,  grieving  much  for  his  forget- \nfulness ;  and  his  companion  was  soon  released. \n\n\nChapter  XLVI. \n\nHow  Christ  appeared  to  him  under  the  form  of  a  Seraph, \nand  taught  him  how  to  suffer. \n\nOnce  upon  a  time,  when  the  Servitor  had \nturned  to  God  with  great  fervour,  beseeching \nHim  to  instruct  him  how  to  suffer,  there  ap- \npeared to  him  in  a  vision  a  likeness  of  Christ \nupon  the  cross  in  the  form  of  a  Seraph :  and  the \nSeraph  had  six  wings :  with  two  he  covered  his \nhead,  with  two  his  feet,  and  with  two  he  flew. \nOn  the  two  lowest  wings  was  written,  \"Re- \nceive sufferings  willingly;\"  on  the  two  middle \nwings,   \"Bear    sufferings    patiently;\"    and   on \n\n\n2&0  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HElSTtY  SUSO. \n\nthe  two  highest  wings,  \"Learn  to  suffer  after \nChrist's  pattern.\" \n\nHe  told  this  vision  of  love  to  one  of  his  inti- \nmate friends,  who  was  a  very  holy  person.  The \nanswer  which  he  received  was: — Be  assured \nthat  God  has  once  more  prepared  for  you  new \nsufferings,  which  you  will  have  to  suffer.  He \nasked  what  kind  of  sufferings  these  might  be. \nHe  was  answered : — You  will  be  raised  to  the \ndignity  of  a  prelate,  in  order  that  those  who  are \ndisaffected  to  you  may  be  the  better  able  to \nstrike  you,  and  may  humble  you  so  much  the \nmore  deeply.  Therefore  stablish  yourself  in \npatience,  as  has  been  shown  you  under  the \nfigure  of  the  Seraph.  He  fetched  a  sigh,  and \nlooked  out  for  the  coming  of  a  new  storm ;  and \nso  in  truth  it  came  to  pass  as  the  holy  person \nhad  foretold  him. \n\nIt  happened  at  this  time  that  there  were \nseveral  years  of  scarcity,  and  no  one  gave  alms \nof  bread  or  wine  to  the  convent  in  which  he \nthen  was ;  so  that  the  convent  fell  greatly  into \ndebt.  The  brothers  resolved  in  common  to  elect \nthe  Servitor  prior  during  the  great  scarcity,  not- \nwithstanding his  sorrow  and  repugnance;  for \nhe  well  understood  that  herein  new  sufferings \nwere  prepared  for  him. \n\n\nHE  IS  MADE  PRIOR.  241 \n\nOn  the  first  day  he  caused  the  bell  to  be \nrung  for  chapter,  and  he  exhorted  the  commu- \nnity to  call  upon  the  dear  St.  Dominic,  inas- \nmuch as  he  had  promised  his  brothers  that  if \nthey  called  upon  him  when  they  were  in  need, \nhe  would,  with  God's  permission,  come  and \nhelp  them.  Now  there  were  two  of  the  bro- \nthers sitting  side  by  side  in  the  chapter,  one \nof  whom  whispered  to  the  other  very  scorn- \nfully:— See  what  a  foolish  man  this  prior  is, \nthat  he  bids  us  turn  to  God  in  our  need.  Does \nhe  fancy  that  God  will  open  heaven,  and  send \nus  down  meat  and  drink?  The  other  an- \nswered : — He  js  not  the  only  fool.  We  are  all \nfools  for  having  made  him  prior,  though  we \nknew  well  beforehand  that  he  is  quite  ignor- \nant about  earthly  things,  and  does  nothing  but \ngape  upwards  continually  to  heaven.  Many  a \ncontemptuous  judgment  of  this  kind  was  passed \nupon  him.  When  morning  came,  he  ordered \na  mass  of  St.  Dominic  to  be  sung,  that  the \nsaint  might  provide  for  them  what  they  needed. \nNow,  while  he  was  standing  in  the  choir  deep \nsunk  in  thought,  the  porter  came  and  called \nhim  out  to  a  rich  canon,  who  was  his  particular \nfriend.  The  canon  said  to  him : — Dear  sir, \nyou  have  no  experience  in  temporal  things; \nR \n\n\n242  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nbut  I  have  been  inwardly  admonished  by  God \nlast  night  to  help  you  in  His  stead,  and  ac- \ncordingly I  have  brought  you  twenty  pounds \nweight  of  Constance  pennies  for  a  beginning. \nPut  your  trust  in  God.  He  will  not  forsake \nyou.  The  Servitor  was  filled  with  joy,  and, \ntaking  the  money,  ordered  wine  and  corn  to  be \nbought  with  it.  Moreover,  God  and  St.  Do- \nminic so  helped  him  during  the  whole  time  that \nhe  was  prior,  that  the  convent  never  wanted \nfor  provisions  of  any  kind ;  and  besides  this,  he \npaid  off  all  the  debt. \n\nThe  above-mentioned  canon,  when  he  lay \nupon  his  death-bed,  made  large  bequests  for \nhis  soul's  health  to  various  objects  towards \nwhich  he  had  a  devotion.  Afterwards  he  sent \nfor  the  Servitor,  who  was  then  prior,  and \nintrusted  him  with  a  considerable  number  of \nflorins,  bidding  him  distribute  them  in  other \nplaces  among  poor  friends  of  God  who  had \nworn  out  their  strength  in  austere  exercises. \nThe  Servitor  was  reluctant  to  undertake  this, \nfor  he  feared  that  he  would  have  to  suffer  for \nit  afterwards,  as  in  fact  happened.  At  last  lie \nwas  over-persuaded  to  take  the  money,  and  he \nwent  out  into  the  neighbouring  country  and \ndistributed  the  sum,  as  he  had  promised,  here \n\n\nHIS  LIFE  IS  THREATENED.  243 \n\nand  there  where  he  believed  that  it  would  be \nmost  beneficial  to  the  donor's  soul ;  and  he  took \nproper  receipts  for  it,  and  gave  account  of  it  all \nto  his  superiors.  A  heavy  tribulation,  however, \nfell  upon  him  in  consequence  of  this. \n\nThe  canon  had  an   ill-conditioned   natural \nson,  who,  after  squandering  away  what  his  fa- \nther had  given  him,  abandoned  himself  to  pro- \nfligate and  ruinous  courses.    This  man  was  very \nanxious  to  obtain  possession  of  the   money  in \nquestion,  and,  as  he  could  not  succeed  in  this, \nhe  sent  word  to  the  Servitor,  under  a  solemn \noath,   that   wherever   he   fell   in  with  him  he \nwould   kill   him.     No   one   could   appease  this \nman's  enmity,  however  often  the   attempt  was \nmade.    Nothing  would  do  but  he  must  kill  him. \nThe  poor  Servitor  was  for  a  long  time  in  an- \nguish and  distress,  and  he  did  not  venture  to \ntravel  about  from  place   to  place,  for  fear  of \nbeing   murdered  by  the   reprobate   man.     He \nused  to  lift  up  his  eyes  to  God,  and  with  many \nsighs  exclaim:  —  Alas,  O   God!    what    miser- \nable kind  of  death  hast  Thou  ordained  for  me ! \nHis  distress  was  all  the  greater  because  a  short \ntime  before  a  brother  of  good  repute  had  been \ncruelly  murdered  in  another  town  for  the  same \nsort  of  thing.     The  poor  Servitor  found  no  one \n\n\n244  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwho  had  the  will  or  the  courage  to  undertake  to \nshield  him  from  the  ferocity  of  this  savage  man. \nSo  he  betook  himself  to  the  sovereign  Lord  of \nall,  who  set  him  free  from  his  persecutor,  and \ncut  short  his  young  and  vigorous  life  by  death. \n\nTo  these  afflictions  was  added  another  bitter \nsuffering.  There  was  a  certain  ecclesiastical \ncommunity  which  had  received  great  gifts  from \nthe  canon.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  them,  and \nthey  all  fell  upon  the  brother  with  great  indig- \nnation because  he  would  not  let  all  the  above- \nmentioned  money  come  to  them.  He  was  sadly \ninsulted  on  this  account,  and  they  accused  him \nbefore  seculars  and  ecclesiastics,  and  the  slan- \nderous tale,  making  him  out  guilty  by  a  per- \nversion of  the  facts,  was  carried  far  and  wide \nthroughout  the  country,  and  he  had  to  bear  the \nloss  of  his  good  name  among  men  for  things  in \nwhich  he  was  guiltless  in  the  eyes  of  God. \n\nAt  this  time  the  deceased  canon  appeared  to \nhim  in  a  vision,  clothed  in  a  beautiful  green \nvestment  worked  all  over  with  red  roses.  He \ntold  the  Servitor  that  it  was  well  with  him  in \nthe  other  world ;  and  he  entreated  him  to  bear \npatiently  the  great  wrong  which  was  being  done \nhim,  for  that  God  would  make  it  all  up  to  him \nabundantlv.      The    Servitor    asked   him   what \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  TOURNAMENT.  245 \n\nhis  beautiful  vestment  signified.  He  answered : \n— The  red  roses  on  the  green  ground  represent \nyour  patient  suffering,  with  which  you  have \nrichly  clothed  me ;  and  for  this  God  will  clothe \nyou  with  Himself  everlastingly. \n\n\nChapter  XL VII. \n\nHow  steadfastly  he  must  fight  who  would  win  the  spiritual \nprize. \n\nAt  the  first  beginning  of  the  Servitor's \nconversion,  he  desired  with  all  his  heart  to \nbe  singularly  and  pre-eminently  well-pleasing \nto  the  loving  God,  but  he  expected  to  accom- \nplish this  without  labour  and  suffering. \n\nNow  it  happened  once,  when  he  went  out \ninto  the  country  to  preach,  that  he  embarked \non  board  a  passenger  ship  on  the  Lake  of  Con- \nstance, and  he  observed  there,  sitting  among \nthe  other  passengers,  a  comely  youth,  gaily  at- \ntired. He  drew  near  the  youth,  and  asked  him \nwhat  manner  of  man  he  was.  The  youth  ans- \nwered : — I  am  an  esquire  errant,  and  I  bring  the \ngentlefolk  together,  and  arrange  tournaments, \nin  which  they  tilt  and  fight,  and  pay  homage \nto  fair  ladies ;  and  he  who  proves  himself  to  be \n\n\n246  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  best  of  all  carries  off  the  honour  and  the \nreward.     The  Servitor  said : — And  what  is  the \nreward?    The  esquire  replied : — The  most  beau- \ntiful of  the  ladies  present  places  a  gold  ring \nupon  his  finger.    The  Servitor  asked  further: — I \nBut  tell  me,  dear  friend,  what  must  one  do  to \ncarry  off  the  honour  and  the  ring?     He  an- \nswered : — He   who  proves   to   be   the  best   at \nbearing   sword- strokes   and   assaults,  and  who \nshows  no  faintheartedness  in  this,  but  behaves \nhimself  courageously   and    manfully,    and   sits \nfirm,  and  bears  up  against  the  blows — he  it  is \nwho   receives  the  prize.      The  Servitor   asked \nonce   more : — Tell   me ;    if  a  man  were   only \nbold  in  the  first  onset,  would  that  be  enough? \nHe  replied : — No ;  he  must  remain  firm  to  the \nvery  end  of  the  tournament ;    and  though  the \nblows  which  he   receives  bring  sparks   of  fire \ninto  his  eyes,  and  make  the  blood  burst  from \nhis  mouth  and  nose,  he  must  endure  them  all, \nif  he  is  to  obtain  the  glory  of  victory.     The \nServitor  replied: — But,  dear  comrade,  may  he \nnot  weep  or  look  mournful  when  he  gets  such \nterrible  blows  ?    He  answered : — No ;  and  though \nhis  heart  sinks  within  him,  as  happens  to  many, \nhe  may  not  do  anything  of  the  kind ;    but  he \nmust  bear  himself  joyously  and  bravely,  other- \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  TOURNAMENT.  247 \n\nwise  he  will  become  a  laughing-stock,  and  lose \nthe  glory  and  the  ring. \n\nThis  discourse  made  the  Servitor  enter  into \nhimself,  and,  fetching  a  sigh  from  the  depths  of \nhis  heart,  he  said : — Ah  !  glorious  Lord  God ! \nmust  the  knights  of  this  world  endure  so  much \nsuffering  for  such  a  small  reward,  which  is  in  itself \na  very  nothing !  How  fitting  then  it  is  that  much \ngreater  labours  should  be  undergone  for  the  ever- \nlasting prize !  O  sweet  Lord,  would  that  I  were \nworthy  to  be  Thy  spiritual  knight !  O  lovely \nEternal  Wisdom,  who  art  rich  in  graces  beyond \naught  in  any  land,  would  that  my  soul  might \nreceive  a  ring  from  Thee !  To  win  it,  I  would \nsuffer  whatever  might  be  Thy  will!  And  he  be- \ngan to  weep,  from  the  great  fervour  which  he  felt. \n\nWhen  he  arrived  at  the  place  to  which  he \nwas  going,  God  sent  him  great  and  cruel  suf- \nferings in  such  plenty  that  the  poor  Servitor \nnearly  lost  all  his  trust  in  God ;  and  many  eyes \nbecame  wet  with  tears  through  pity  for  him. \nHe  had  forgotten  all  his  knightly  daring  and \nhis  promise,  and  he  became  melancholy  and \npeevish  with  God,  wondering  within  himself \nwhat  God  could  have  against  him  that  He  had \nsent  him  such  great  sufferings.  In  the  morn- \ning, at  daybreak,  there  came  a  calm  over  his \n\n\n248  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nsoul;  and  his  bodily  senses  being  stilled  in \necstasy,  a  voice  spoke  within  him: — Where  is \nnow  thy  knightly  prowess  ?  What  a  knight  of \nstraw,  and  a  scarecrow  of  a  man  he  must  be, \nwho  is  so  daring  in  prosperity,  and  so  despair- \ning in  adversity !  This  is  not  the  way  to  win \nthe  everlasting  ring,  for  which  thou  longest. \nHe  replied: — O  Lord!  the  jousts  of  the  inte- \nrior life,  which  must  be  borne  for  Thee,  are  far \ntoo  long  and  wearisome.  To  this  there  came \nan  answer : — Therefore  the  glory,  and  the  hon- \nour, and  the  ring  of  My  knights,  who  receive \nhonour  from  Me,  are  stable  and  everlasting. \nUpon  this  the  Servitor,  entering  into  himself, \nsaid  very  humbly : — Lord !  I  am  in  the  wrong. \nOnly  permit  me  to  weep  while  I  suffer,  for \nmy  heart  is  very  full.  The  answer  came : — \nAlas  for  thee!  Dost  thou  want  to  weep  like \na  woman,  and  disgrace  thyself  before  the  court \nof  heaven  I  Wipe  thy  eyes,  and  bear  thyself \njoyously,  so  that  neither  God  nor  men  may \nperceive  that  thou  hast  wept  on  account  of \nsufferings.  The  Servitor  began  to  laugh,  and \nyet  at  the  same  time  the  tears  were  running \ndown  his  cheeks,  and  he  promised  God  that  he \nwould  no  more  wish  to  weep,  that  so  he  might \nobtain  from  Him  the  spiritual  ring. \n\n\nHIS  FACE  SHINES.  249 \n\n\nChapter  XLVIII. \n\nHow  the  Servitor's  face  was  once  seen  to  shine  with  light \nwhile  he  was  preaching. \n\nOnce  when  the  Servitor  was  preaching  at \nCologne  with  great  fervour,  there  sat  among  his \nhearers  a  beginner  in  the  spiritual  life,  who  had \nbeen  recently  converted  to  God.  Now  while \nthis  beginner  was  attending  diligently  to  the \npreacher,  he  saw  with  the  eyes  of  his  soul  that \nthe  preacher's  face  began  to  be  transfigured \nwith  a  ravishing  brightness,  and  three  times  it \nbecame  like  the  radiant  sun  when  its  splendour \nis  at  the  highest ;  and  the  face,  moreover,  was \nso  pure,  that  the  beginner  saw  himself  reflected \nin  it.  This  vision  brought  him  very  great  con- \nsolation in  his  sufferings,  and  confirmed  him  in \na  holy  life. \n\n\nChapter  XLIX. \n\nOf  the  lovely  Name  of  Jesus. \nThe  Servitor  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom  once \nmade  a  journey  from  the  upper  country  to  Aix- \nla-Chapelle,  to  visit  our  dear  Lady.     And  on \n\n\n250  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nhis  return,  our  dear  Lady  appeared  to  a  holy \nperson,  and  said: — Behold,  my  Child's  Servitor \nhas  come  hither,  and  he  has  carried  about  His \nsweet  Name  of  Jesus  far  and  wide,  with  the \nsame  ardent  desire  with  which  His  Apostles  of \nold  carried  it;  and  just  as  their  desire  was  to \nmake  all  men  know  this  Name  through  the \npreaching  of  the  faith,  even  so  all  his  strivings \nhave  been  to  set  all  cold  hearts  on  fire  with \nnew  love  for  this  Name  of  Jesus.  Therefore \nhe  shall  receive,  after  his  death,  an  everlasting \nreward  with  them. \n\nAfterwards,  this  holy  person  saw  our  dear \nLady  holding  a  beautiful  candle  in  her  hand, \nand  it  burned  so  beautifully  that  its  light  shone \nthroughout  the  whole  world ;  and  all  round  and \nround  the  candle  the  Name  of  Jesus  was  writ- \nten. Then  our  dear  Lady  said  to  this  person  : — \nBehold,  this  burning  candle  signifies  the  Name \nof  Jesus,  because  He  in  very  truth  illuminates \nthe  hearts  of  all  who  receive  His  Name  with \ndevotion,  and  pay  it  honour,  and  bear  it  lov- \ningly about  with  them.  To  this  end,  my  Child \nhas  chosen  out  His  Servitor,  that  devotion  to \nHis  Name  may  be  lit  up  through  him  in  the \nhearts  of  many,  and  that  these  may  be  helped \nonwards  by  him  to  everlasting  bliss. \n\n\nTHE  NAME  OF  JESUS.  251 \n\nWhen  this  holy  maiden,  of  whom  mention \nhas  been  made  above,  perceived  that  her  spirit- \nual father  was  so  devout  to,  and  had  such  firm \nfaith  in,  the  loving  Name  of  Jesus,  which  he \nbore  upon  his  breast  over  his  heart,  she  con- \nceived a  great  and  peculiar  love  for  it,  and  out \nof  devotion  she  marked  the  Name  of  Jesus  in  red \nsilk  on  a  little  piece  of  cloth,  in  the  following \nform:  IHS — and  wore  it  secretly  upon  her- \nself. She  also  made  an  almost  countless  number \nof  similar  Names,  and  persuaded  the  Servitor  to \nlay  them  on  his  bare  heart,  and  then  send  them, \nwith  a  blessing  from  God,  to  his  spiritual  chil- \ndren in  different  parts.  Moreover,  it  was  re- \nvealed to  her  by  God  that  those  who  bore  the \nName  upon  them,  and  said  daily  with  devotion \nan  \"Our  Father\"  in  honour  of  it,  would  be \ntreated  lovingly  by  God  in  this  world,  and \nwould  find  grace  before  Him  at  their  last \npassage. \n\nSuch  were  the  austere  exercises  and  such \nthe  godly  examples  of  Jesus  Christ  and  His  dear \nfriends,  according  to  which  the  beginnings  of \nthis  holy  maiden's  spiritual  life  were  fashioned. \n\n\n252  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  L. \n\nA  good  distinction  between  a  true  and  false  use  of  reason \nnoticeable  in  certain  persons. \n\n\"As  the  eagle  enticing  her  young  to  fly\"  (Deut.  xxxii.  11). \nWhen  this  holy  daughter,  by  the  good \ninstructions  of  her  spiritual  father,  had  been \nthoroughly  fashioned  after  the  outward  man \nto  every  branch  of  holiness  which  can  be \ntaught  by  examples,  just  as  a  piece  of  soft \nwax  before  the  fire  takes  the  form  of  the  seal \nwhich  is  impressed  upon  it,  and  when  she  had \nbeen  for  a  long  time  regularly  trained  in  the \nimitation  of  the  mirror-like  life  of  Christ,  which \nis  the  surest  way,  she  received  the  following \nletter  from  her  spiritual  father,  the  Servitor : — \nDaughter,  the  time  is  now  come  for  thee  to  aim \nat  something  higher,  and  to  fly  upwards  out  of \nthe  nest  of  forms  and  images,  and  the  conso- \nlations which  proceed  from  them.  Do  like  a \nyoung,  newly-fledged  eagle,  and  soar  upwards \non  thy  well-grown  pinions — I  mean  thy  soul's \nhighest  powers — to  the  heights  of  that  noble \ncontemplation  which  belongs  to  a  blissful  and \nperfect  life.  Knowest  thou  not  what  Christ \nsaid  to  His  disciples,  who  clung  so  closely  to \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FALSE  USE  OF  REASON.   253 \n\nHis  sensible  presence? — It  is  expedient  for  you \nthat  I  go  away  from  you,  if  you  are  to  receive \nthe  Holy  Ghost  (John  xvi.  7).  Thy  former \nexercises  have  been  a  good  preparation  to  bring \nthee  onwards  through  the  wilderness  of  an  ani- \nmal and  unconscious  life,  into  the  promised  land \nof  a  pure  and  quiet  heart,  where  bliss  begins  in \nthis  world,  and  will  continue  everlastingly  in \nthe  next.  But  that  thou  mayest  better  under- \nstand this  high  intellectual  way,  I  will  cause  to \nshine  before  thee  the  light  of  a  good  distinction, \nwhich,  if  thou  clearly  comprehendest  it,  will  save \nthee  from  all  error,  however  high  thou  mayest \nsoar  with  thy  mind. \n\nObserve  this  then.  Two  courses  are  to \nbe  met  with  among  apparently  good  persons. \nSome  pursue  a  course  in  harmony  with  reason, \nand  others  a  course  at  variance  with  it.  The \nfirst  are  those  who  make  it  their  aim  to  shape \nall  their  thoughts,  actions,  and  omissions  accord- \ning to  the  rule  of  sound  discretion,  in  harmony \nwith  the  sentiments  of  holy  Christendom,  to \nGod's  glory,  and  the  peace  and  quiet  of  all \nother  men ;  while  at  the  same  time  they  keep \ndiligent  watch  over  their  words  and  ways,  so \nas  to  give  scandal  to  no  one,  unless  indeed  a \nperson  takes  scandal  at  them  through  his  own \n\n\n254  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nfault,  as  often  happens.  Now  the  very  name \nand  nature  of  reason  admonish  us  to  pursue  a \nguarded  walk  and  manner  of  life  like  this.  And \nthe  reason  of  these  persons  is  after  the  fashion \nof  the  Divine  reason,  and  worthy  of  praise,  for \nits  light  shines  inwards  in  itself  in  a  true  though \nhidden  way,  just  as  the  heavens  shine  in  the \nbright  stars.  On  the  contrary,  in  those  appa- \nrently good  persons  who  follow  a  course  at \nvariance  with  reason,  and  with  an  unmortified \nnature  make  self  their  aim,  and  only  gaze  in- \ntently upon  objects  with  their  reason  after  the \nmanner  of  contemplation,  and  are  able  to  dis- \ncourse about  them  overbearingly  before  the  un- \nlearned, while  by  word  and  deed  they  testify \ncontempt  for  every  unfavourable  judgment  passed \nupon  them; — in  such  persons  the  intellectual \nlight  streams  outwards,  and  not  inwards;  and \njust  as  decayed  wood,  from  the  glimmer  it  sends \nforth  at  night,  seems  to  be  something,  and  yet \nis  nothing,  even  so  the  inward  light  and  outward \nwalk  of  these  persons  show  themselves  to  be  in \nall  respects  unlike  that  which  they  ought  to \nresemble. \n\nWhat  these  persons  are  may  be  easily  ga- \nthered from  the  free  and  un weighed  maxims \nwhich  they  put  forth.     We  will  only  take  one \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FAUSE  USE  OF  REASON.   255 \n\nof  these  maxims,  and  by  it  we  can  estimate  all \nthe  rest.  The  following  words  occur  in  a  poem \nby  one  of  them,  \"  The  just  needs  shun  no  ob- \nstacle.\" This  saying,  and  others  like  it,  have \nan  air  of  importance  in  the  eyes  of  certain  dim- \nsighted  persons,  but  will  meet  with  no  praise \nfrom  those  who  see  well  and  understand  what \nthey  really  mean.  This  is  evident  in  the  case \nof  the  saying  just  quoted,  \"The  just  needs  shun \nno  obstacle.\"  For  what  is  \"  the  just,\"  and  what \nis  an  \"obstacle\"?  \"The  just,\"  according  to  the \nusual  meaning  of  the  term,  is  a  just  man  re- \ngarded as  actually  existing  in  creation.  For \nthe  quality  \"just\"  has  no  existence  by  itself, \nbut  needs  a  subject  in  which  it  can  exist,  and \nthis  subject  in  the  present  case  is  the  just  man. \nAgain,  what  is  an  \"  obstacle\"  ?  It  is  sin  which \nseparates  a  man  from  God.  Is  a  just  man,  then, \nto  shun  no  obstacle — that  is  to  say,  is  he  to \navoid  or  shun  no  sin  1  Such  an  assertion  would \nbe  simply  false,  and  at  variance  with  all  rea- \nson. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  just  man,  and \nall  other  things,  when  viewed,  antecedently  to \ntheir  coming  into  being  and  their  creation,  as \nexisting  ideally  from  everlasting  in  God's  essen- \ntial reason,  are  all  one  and  the  same,  without \nany  formal  difference,  and  therefore  the  saying, \n\n\n2oQ        life  of  blessed  henry  suso. \n\nif  understood  in  this  sense,  may  be  allowed  to \npass.  But  then  it  must  be  remembered  that \nthe  just  man,  regarded  as  existing  only  in  this \nsimple  super-essential  basis,  is  not  the  corporeal \nman ;  for  there  is  nothing  corporeal  in  the  God- \nhead, neither  is  there  any  obstacle  there.  But \nit  is  outside  this  basis  that  each  man  finds  him- \nself to  be  this  or  that  individual  man;  for  outside \nof  it  he  is  mortal,  and  within  it  he  is  immortal : \nand  it  is  outside  of  it  that  he  now  exists  in  his \nfrail  created  nature,  in  which  he  has  great  need \nto  shun  every  hurtful  obstacle.  If,  then,  I  were \nto  try  to  regard  myself  in  my  own  mind  as \nnon-existent,  and  in  this  way  to  know  nothing  of \nmyself;  and  if,  without  distinguishing  between \nmyself  and  God,  I  were  to  do  all  corporeal  ac- \ntions as  though  the  uncreated  Being  did  them \n— this  would  be  a  crime  above  all  crimes. \n\nFrom  this  we  see,  that  such  maxims  as  these \nhave  really  nothing  rational  in  them.  In  saying \nthis,  however,  it  is  not  meant  to  condemn  ra- \ntional doctrine  or  rational  well-weighed  maxims \nand  poems,  by  which  men  are  refined,  and \nguided  towards  intellectual  truth,  even  though \nthey  are  not  understood  by  every  body.  For  it \nis  manifestly  true,  that  no  one  can  speak  with \nsufficient  clearness  to  be  understood  bv  those \n\n\nMISUSE  OF  REASON.  257 \n\nwho  are  grossly  blind,  and  as  ignorant  as  brute \nbeasts. \n\nThe  daughter  answered: — Praised  be  God \nfor  this  good  distinction !  But  I  should  also  be \nvery  glad  to  hear  the  distinction  between  a  well- \nordered  reason  and  one  which  is  all  flowers  and \noutward  show,  as  well  as  between  true  and  false \ndetachment. \n\n\nChapter  LI. \n\nHow  to  distinguish  between  a  well-ordered  reason  and  one \nwhich  is  all  flowers  and  glitter. \n\nThe  Servitor  replied  as  follows: — At  the \nend  of  the  first  combats,  which  have  for  their \nobject  to  bring  flesh  and  blood  into  subjection, \na  man  arrives  at  a  deep  sea  in  which  many \nperish ;  and  this  is  a  use  of  reason  which  is  all \nglitter  and  external  show.  Now  what  is  meant \nby  this  f  The  following  is  what  I  mean  by  a \nuse  of  reason  which  is  all  glitter  and  outward \nshow: — When  a  man  has  been  emptied  inte- \nriorly of  the  grossness  caused  by  sin,  and  his \nmind  is  freed  from  the  forms  and  images  which \nused  to  cling  to  it,  and  he  is  able  to  soar  up- \nwards joyously  above  time  and  space,  which  till \nthen  held  him  in  bondage,  so  that  he  could  not \n\n\n258  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nuse  liis  nature's  noble  powers — at  such  a  time, \nwhen  he  has  already  begun  to  open  his  soul's \neyes  and  to  taste  a  new  and  better  pleasure, \neven  that  which  springs  from  the  perception  of \ntruth,  the  enjoyment  of  divine  bliss,  the  gazing \ninto  the  now  of  eternity  which  lies  before  him, \nand  such  like,  and  when,  moreover,  his  created \nreason  begins  to  recognise  in  itself  and  in  all \nthings  a  portion  of  the  everlasting  and  uncreated \nreason,  it  comes  to  him  as  something  wondrous \nstrange,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  sees  himself \nas  he  was  before  and  as  he  is  now,  and  he  dis- \ncovers that  he  was  before  like  a  poor,  godless, \nneedy  creature,  both  blind  and  far  from  God ; \nwhereas  now  it  seems  to  him  that  he  is  full  of \nGod,  and  that  there  is  nothing  which  is  not \nGod;  nay,  more,  that  God  and  all  things  are \nabsolutely  one.  And  he  catches  at  this  view \ntoo  hastily,  and  in  an  unseasonable  way,  and \nhis  mind  runs  wild,  like  new  wine  which  is  still \nfermenting  and  has  not  settled,  and  he  seizes \nupon  that  which  is  present  to  his  thoughts,  or \nwhich  is  suggested  to  him,  without  the  needful \ndistinction,  by  some  One,  who  is  Himself  that \nvery  One  to  whom  alone  he  should  give  ear, \nand  to  no  one  else;  and  then  he  resolves  ac- \ncording to  his  self-satisfied  judgment  to  dismiss \n\n\nMISUSE  OF  REASON.  259 \n\nfrom  his  thoughts  every  thing  created,  and  he \nregards  no  longer  hell  or  heaven,  devil  or  angel, \nin  their  own  created  nature;  nay,  he  disdains \nalso  Christ's  suffering  Humanity  as  soon  as  he \nhas  beheld  God  in  it.  Yet  for  all  this,  he  has \nnot  gone  to  the  bottom  in  his  knowledge  of \nthings ;  namely,  in  regard  to  their  distinctions, \nand  what  is  permanent  and  what  is  transient  in \nthem.  It  fares,  in  fact,  with  such  men  as  with \nthe  honey-bees.  When  the  bees  are  fully  grown, \nand  for  the  first  time  burst  forth  out  of  the  hive, \nthey  fly  at  random  on  this  side  and  on  that,  they \nknow  not  whither ;  and  some  go  astray  in  their \nflight  and  are  lost,  while  others  return  again  in \ndue  course  to  the  hive.  The  same  thing  hap- \npens with  these  persons  when,  with  their  undis- \nciplined reason,  they  try  to  behold  God  as  all \nin  all,  and  endeavour,  according  to  their  imper- \nfect intelligence,  to  let  go  this  and  that,  they \nknow  not  how.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  every \nthing  must  be  let  go  by  him  who  would  attain \nperfection ;  but  they  do  not  understand  how \nthis  letting-go  of  things  is  to  be  managed,  and \nthey  try  to  let  go  this  and  that  without  discre- \ntion, and  to  rid  themselves  of  all  things  without \nattending  to  the  necessary  distinctions.  This \nfault  arises  either  from  unlearned  simplicity  or \n\n\n260  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nunmortified  craftiness.  Hence  many  a  one  ima- \ngines that  he  has  attained  everything  if  only  he \ncan  go  forth  ont  of  himself  in  this  way,  and \ndetach  himself  from  himself.  But  it  is  not  so. \nFor  he  has  only  slunk  over  the  outer  ditch  of \nthe  still  unstormed  fortress,  under  cover  of  the \nscreen  behind  which  he  skilfully  and  secretly \nconceals  himself,  and  he  cannot  yet,  by  the \norderly  annihilation  of  his  spiritual  being,  pass \naway  into  a  veritable  poverty  of  spirit,  in  which \nevery  foreign  object  is  in  a  certain  sense  let  go, \nand  to  which  the  possession  of  the  everlasting \nand  simple  Godhead  corresponds,  now  that  all \nhuman  activity  has  come  to  an  end,  as  will  be \nshown  hereafter  with  the  requisite  distinctions. \n\nBehold,  this  is  the  point  where  some  persons, \nwithout  knowing  it,  stick  fast  for  many  years, \nand  can  neither  come  in  nor  go  out.  But  I  will \nshow  thee,  by  the  help  of  a  distinction,  the  right \nroad,  so  that  thou  mayest  not  be  able  to  go  astray. \n\n\nChapter  LIT. \n\nA  good  distinction  between  true  and  false  detachment. \nKnow,  then,  that  there  are  three  kinds  of \npassing  away.     The  first  is  a  complete  passing \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FALSE  DETACHMENT.    261 \n\naway.  This  takes  place  when  a  thing  passes \naway  so  entirely  that  it  ceases  to  exist;  as  a \nshadow  passes  away  and  is  no  more.  In  this \nsense  of  the  word,  the  spirit  of  a  man,  to  which \nwe  give  the  name  of  a  rational  soul,  does  not \npass  away  at  its  going  forth,  but  it  continues \nfor  ever,  in  virtue  of  the  high  nobility  of  its \nrational  nature  and  godlike  powers.  For  God, \nafter  whose  image  it  is  fashioned,  is  a  super- \nessential  reason,  and  therefore  it  is  impossible \nfor  the  soul  to  cease  to  exist,  as  the  mortal  body \ndoes. \n\nAnother  kind  of  passing  away  may  be  termed \na  half  passing  away,  and  has  its  own  hour  and \ntime.  This  is  the  case  with  those  who  are  rapt \nin  contemplation  into  the  pure  Godhead,  as \nPaul  was;  or  again,  in  another  way,  when  a \nman  becomes  abstracted  in  thought,  as  often \nhappens,  and  thus  passes  away  out  of  himself. \nThis  kind,  however,  is  transitory;  for  when \nPaul  came  to  himself  again,  he  found  himself \nthe  same  Paul,  a  man  as  before. \n\nThe  third  kind  may  be  called  a  metaphorical \npassing  away.  This  takes  place  when  a  man, \nby  the  renunciation  of  his  free-will,  abandons \nhimself  to  God  at  each  moment  that  he  finds \nhimself,  just  as  if  he  knew  nothing  about  him- \n\n\n262  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nself,  and  God  alone  was  lord  and  master.  This \nkind  of  passing  away  cannot  be  complete  and \nperpetual,  so  long  as  the  body  and  soul  are \nunited;  for  at  the  very  moment  when  a  man \nhas  detached  himself  from  himself,  and  fancies \nthat  he  has  so  entirely  passed  away  into  God \nthat  he  will  never  resume  himself,  so  far  as  his \nlower  or  sensual  nature  is  concerned,  all  at  once, \nin  an  instant,  he  and  his  perverse  self  are  back \nagain,  and  he  is  the  same  that  he  was  before, \nand  has  to  forsake  himself  again  and  again.  To \nthink,  then,  that  in  this  imperfect  state  of  detach- \nment a  man  may  lawfully  do  just  whatever  he \npleases,  would  be  a  simple  delusion.  Though \ncertainly  it  is  true,  that  the  more  any  one \nestranges  himself  from  himself,  and  passes  away \nout  of  himself  into  God,  the  more  completely \nhe  is  established  in  the  very  truth. \n\nThou  must  know  further  that  there  are  two \nkinds  of  detachment  from  self.  The  one  is \ncalled  antecedent,  and  the  other  subsequent \ndetachment.  Thou  wilt  understand  this  better \nfrom  an  example.  A  thief  feels  in  himself \nthrough  the  wickedness  of  his  nature  an  im- \npulse and  craving  to  steal.  But  his  conscience \nopposes  this,  saying : — Thou  shouldst  not  steal, \nfor  it  is  a  sin.     Now  if  the  thief  went  out  of \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FALSE  DETACHMENT.    263 \n\nhimself  and  obeyed  his  conscience,  this  would \nbe  antecedent  detachment,  and  the  nobler  of \nthe  two,  for  he  would  remain  in  his  innocence. \nIf,  however,  he  will  not  detach  himself  from \nhimself  in  this  matter,  but  resolves  to  satisfy  his \nwicked  propensities,  later  on,  when  he  has  been \ncaught  and  he  sees  that  he  must  hang  for  it,  the \nsubsequent  detachment  comes,  moving  him  to \nyield  himself  patiently  to  death,  since  it  cannot \nbe  otherwise.  This  kind  of  detachment  is  good \nand  saves  the  man's  soul,  but  the  other  is  be- \nyond comparison  nobler  and  better.  Hence  we \nought  not  to  be  so  daring  as  to  abandon  our- \nselves to  sin,  according  to  the  sentiments  of \nsome  foolish  persons,  who  say  that  he  who  would \narrive  at  perfect  detachment  must  wade  through \nall  sins.  This  is  false ;  for  a  man  would  be  a \nfool  to  throw  himself  wantonly  into  a  filthy \npool,  in  order  that  he  might  afterwards  become \nmore  beautiful. \n\nTherefore  the  most  pious  of  God's  friends \nearnestly  desire  to  be  brought  to  naught,  and \nto  abide  steadfastly  in  antecedent  detachment, \nwithout  ever  resuming  themselves  in  any  thing \nso  far  as  human  frailty  will  permit ;  and  when- \never they  fail  in  this,  it  is  a  source  of  lamenta- \ntion to  them.     It  is  true,  indeed,  that  they  have \n\n\n264  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthis  advantage  over  other  men,  that  they  can \nrid  themselves  more  speedily  of  the  obstacle  (i.e. \nof  the  sin  which  stands  between  them  and  God) ; \nfor  out  of  their  lamentation  itself  springs  up  at \nonce  a  subsequent  detachment,  which  replaces \nthem  quickly  where  they  were  before,  and  this \nhappens  when  a  man,  finding  himself  still  a  man, \nbears  with  himself  as  such  for  God's  glory. \n\nMoreover  this  subsequent  detachment  be- \ncomes in  a  certain  sense  profitable  to  them, \nthrough  the  self-knowledge  which  results  from \nit;  and  here  their  lamentation  ceases  to  be  a \nlamentation,  and  they  are  born  again  into  their \nformer  state  of  simplicity,  and  become  once \nmore  what  they  were  before.  If,  however,  a \nman  who  is  thus  incomplete  were  to  try  by \nsubtlety  to  help  himself,  alleging,  What  harm \ncan  it  do  a  man  if  he  resumes  himself  in  what \nis  only  accidental,  and  thereby  commits  some \nsin  exteriorly,  provided  that  the  essence  of  the \nman  remains  as  it  was,  without  being  resumed \nin  any  point  ?  To  this  I  answer,  that  he  neither \nunderstands  himself  nor  what  he  says.  And  all \nlearned  doctors  will  agree  to  this,  if  only  they \nunderstand  what  the  term  accident  means.  For \nthe  name  of  accident  is  given  to  that  which  may \nbe  added  to  or  taken  from  the  substantial  essence \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FALSE  DETACHMENT.    265 \n\nwithout  destroying  the  substance,  as  colour  on \na  board.  But  here  the  case  is  different ;  for  the \nsoul  and  body,  which  in  their  ignorance  they \nterm  accidents,  are  two  essential  parts  which \nmake  up  a  man's  essence,  and  do  not  belong  to \nhim  as  accidents.  Therefore  every  man,  however \nperfectly  he  may  be  able  to  detach  himself  from \nhimself,  and  to  bring  himself  back  again,  has \nstill  that  in  him  by  which  he  can  act  virtuously \nor  sinfully.  For  the  annihilation  of  the  spirit, \nits  passing  away  into  the  simple  Godhead,  and \nall  its  nobility  and  perfection,  are  not  to  be  re- \ngarded as  a  transformation  of  man's  created  es- \nsence into  God,  in  virtue  of  which  all  that  he  is \nis  God,  only  that  he  does  not  perceive  it  through \nhis  grossness,  or,  in  other  words,  that  he  has  be- \ncome God,  and  his  own  essence  is  annihilated ; \nbut  they  are  to  be  understood  of  a  going  out  of \nself,  and  a  contempt  for  self,  such  as  has  been \ndescribed.  And  thus  it  is  that  the  spirit  of  a \nman  is  taken  out  of  itself  and  passes  away  duly \nand  rightfully,  and  then  for  the  first  time  it  is \nwell  with  him.  For  God  has  now  become  all \nthings  to  him,  and  all  things  have  become,  as  it \nwere,  God  to  him ;  for  all  things  present  them- \nselves to  him  now  in  the  manner  in  which  they \nare  in  God,  and  yet  they  all  remain  each  one \n\n\n266  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nwhat  it  is  in  its  own  natural  essence.  This  is \nwhat  those  who  are  blindly  ignorant  and  unex- \nercised in  reasoning  cannot  or  will  not  admit \ninto  their  bewildered  minds  according  to  the \nabove  true  distinction. \n\nThou  mayest  now,  with  the  help  of  this \ngood  distinction,  proceed  to  consider  the  follow- \ning rational  maxims  and  instructions,  which \nhave  for  their  object  to  free  men  from  their \ngrossness  of  spirit,  and  to  lead  them  onwards \nto  their  highest  bliss. \n\n\nChapter  LIII. \n\nMaxims,  conformable  to  right  reason,  for  the  guidance  of \nan  exterior  man  into  his  interior. \n\nLet  thy  walk  be  an  interior  one,  and  be  not \ngiven  to  break  out  either  in  words  or  in  thy \nwalk. \n\nAct  according  to  the  truth  in  simplicity,  and \nwhatever  happens,  be  not  helpful  to  thyself;  for \nhe  who  helps  himself  too  much  will  not  be \nhelped  by  the  Truth. \n\nWhen  thou  art  with  men  pay  no  heed  to \nwhat  thou  seest  or  hearest,  and  cleave  to  that \nalone  which  has   shown  itself  to  thee  (i.e.  re- \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  MAXIMS.  267 \n\nmember  God  alone  who  has  shown  Himself  to \nthee  under  these  outward  things). \n\nBe  careful  that  in  thy  actions  thy  reason \ngoes  first;  for  when  the  sensual  appetite  gets \nthe  start,  every  evil  comes  of  it. \n\nGod  wishes  not  to  deprive  us  of  pleasure ; \nbut  He  wishes  to  give  us  pleasure  in  its  totality, \nthat  is  to  say,  all  pleasure. \n\nThe  more  mightily  thou  humblest  thyself, \nthe  higher  thou  shalt  be  exalted. \n\nHe  who  wishes  to  dwell  in  his  inmost  inte- \nrior, must  rid  himself  of  all  multiplicity.  We \nmust  habitually  reject  all  that  is  not  the  one \nthing. \n\nWhere  the  sensual  appetite  is  the  moving \nprinciple  of  a  man's  actions,  there  is  toil,  suffer- \ning, and  mental  darkness. \n\nWhat  greater  pleasure  is  there  than  to  find \nmyself  the  one  thing  that  I  ought  to  be,  and  the \nwhole  thing  that  I  ought  to  be  (t.  e.  one  with \nGod,  who  is  one  and  all)  1 \n\nA  man  should  remain  steadfast  in  his  state \nof  freedom  from  mental  images,  and  of  self- \nrestraint.     Herein  lies  the  greatest  delight. \n\nIn  what  does  a  truly  detached  man  exercise \nhimself  ?     In  annihilating  himself. \n\nWhen  our  love  is  given  to  a  sensible  image \n\n\n268  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nor  person,  it  is  accident,  loving  accident,  and \nthis  we  have  no  right  to  do ;  nevertheless  I  bear \nwith  myself  in  this  until  I  get  quit  of  it.  It  is, \nhowever,  an  interiorly  simple  act,  when  a  man \ndoes  not  love  the  image,  which  is  present  to  him, \nbut  when  all  things  are  to  him  one,  and  that \none  is  God. \n\nWhen  a  man  detaches  himself  from  himself \nwithout  allowing  the  sensual  appetite  to  break \nout,  he  destroys  self.  If  he  acted  otherwise,  he \nwould  be  helping  himself  by  means  of  his  sen- \nsual appetite. \n\nKeep  thy  feelings  within  thee  both  in  weal \nand  woe ;  for  a  man  who  does  this  loves  more \nin  one  year  than  one  who  lets  his  feelings  break \nout  loves  in  three. \n\nWilt  thou  be  of  use  to  all  creatures,  turn \nthyself  away  from  all  creatures. \n\nIf  a  man  cannot  comprehend  the  matter,  let \nhim  be  passive,  and  the  matter  will  comprehend \nhim. \n\nTake  heed  not  to  break  out  exteriorly  in \na  way  unlike  the  (divine  and  interior)  pat- \ntern. \n\nA  man  should  be  on  his  guard  against  the \ninclination  which  leads  him  to  catch  at  eveiy \nthing  which  may  save  him  from  having  to  yield \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  MAXIMS.  269 \n\nto  the  invitations  of  the  simple  Truth.  If  thou \nwilt  not  submit  to  be  simple,  thou  wilt  have  to \nsubmit  to  be  manifold. \n\nLive  as  if  there  were  no  creature  on  earth \nbut  thee. \n\nSay  to  creatures : — What  thou  art  to  me  I \nwill  not  be  to  thee  (Res  tibi,  te  Deo). \n\nNature  loves  nature  and  makes  itself  its  aim. \nSome  men's  nature  has  not  been  sufficiently \ncrushed,  and  when  this  happens,  they  continue \nexterior. \n\nThe  power  of  refraining  from  things  gives \na  man  more  power  than  the  possession  of  the \nthings  would. \n\nOne  deflection  from  the  right  course  brings \nalong  with  it  another. \n\nSee  that  nature  in  thee  is  unburdened,  and \nthat  thy  outward  man  is  conformable  to  thy  in- \nward man. \n\nLook  well  to  the  inward  man ;  for  on  this \ndepends  thy  exterior  and  interior  life. \n\nIt  belongs  to  perfect  detachment  to  keep \nnature  at  all  times  bridled. \n\nA  man  should  never  lose  sight  of  himself, \nlest  nature  should  run  away. \n\nThou  lamentest  that  thou  art  still  too  active, \nundetached,  and  impatient.     Nevertheless  de- \n\n\n270  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nspair  not.  The  more  keenly  thou  feelest  this \nthe  better. \n\nPerishable  love  is  a  root  of  all  vices,  and  a \neloak  of  all  truth. \n\nThe  setting  of  the  sensual  nature  is  the \nrising  of  the  truth.  When  the  powers  of  the \nsoul  have  ceased  to  work,  and  the  elements \nhave  been  purified,  the  powers  remain  fixed \nupon  their  eternal  object,  if  they  have  been \ndirected  towards  it  according  to  their  ability. \n\nAll  the  powers  have  one  object  and  one  work, \nand  this  is  to  be  conformed  to  the  eternal  Truth. \n\nThere  is  nothing  pleasurable  save  what  is \nuniform  with  the  most  inmost  depths  of  the \nDivine  nature. \n\nSome  men  are  to  be  met  with  who  have  had \nan  interior  drawing  from  God,  and  have  not \nfollowed  it.  The  interior  and  exterior  of  these \nmen  are  far  apart,  and  it  is  in  this  that  many \nfail. \n\nOur  nature  in  its  present  state  is  richly \nendowed.  The  more  it  goes  out  of  itself,  the \nfurther  it  is  from  God;  and  the  more  it  turns \ninwards,  the  nearer  to  Him  it  is. \n\nHe  who  has  attained  to  the  purification  of \nthe  senses  in  God  performs  so  much  the  better \nall  the  operations  of  the  senses. \n\n\nSPIEITUAL  MAXIMS.  271 \n\nIf  a  man  subjects  his  nature,  when  it  has \nbeen  purified,  to  the  Truth,  his  nature  is  guided \nin  such  sort  that  it  performs  much  more  per- \nfectly all  exterior  actions.  Otherwise  it  wastes \nitself  upon  temporal  matters,  and  can  do  nothing \nreally  well. \n\nPurity,  intelligence,  and  virtue  give  a  feel- \ning of  wealth  to  those  who  possess  them.  When \nthe  sensible  possession  of  these  virtues  is  with- \ndrawn from  such  persons  by  God,  it  sometimes \nhappens  that  they  die  to  all  creatures.  Those \nwho  profit  by  this  withdrawal  are  brought  nigher \nto  God  by  it. \n\nWhat  is  that  which  drives  a  man  to  pur- \nsue evil  courses?  It  is  the  craving  for  some- \nthing which  may  satisfy  him.  Yet  we  can \nonly  find  this  in  abnegation,  and  not  in  evil \ncourses. \n\nThe  reason  why  some  men  so  often  fall  into \na  faulty  sadness  is  that  they  do  not  at  all  times \nkeep  an  eye  upon  themselves  to  avoid  in  every \nthing  doing  what  deserves  punishment. \n\nTo  be  worsted  is  to  gain  the  victory  in  the \nestimation  of  God's  friends  (Matt.  v.  39). \n\nAbide  within  thyself.  The  plea  of  seeking \nthings  outside  thee  presents  itself  as  a  necessity; \nbut  it  is  only  a  way  of  helping  self. \n\n\n272  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nIt  is  bad  to  begin  many  things  and  to  bring \nnone  to  an  end. \n\nWe  should  not  move  until  we  have  ob- \nserved whether  it  be  God  or  nature  that  is \nworking  in  us. \n\nTake  care  that  nature  works  in  thee  its \nworks  from  out  itself  without  the  concurrence  of \nother  causes. \n\nA  truly  detached  man  should  attend  to  four \nthings.  First,  he  should  be  very  virtuous  in \nhis  walk,  that  things  may  flow  from  him  with- \nout him.  Secondly,  he  should  also  be  virtuous \nand  quiet  with  regard  to  his  senses,  and  not \ncarry  tales  hither  and  thither,  for  this  is  calcu- \nlated to  fill  his  mind  with  images.  Thus  Ins \ninterior  senses  will  be  able  to  act  inactively. \nThirdly,  he  should  not  be  given  to  attach  him- \nself; and  he  should  take  care  that  there  is \nnothing  heterogeneous  in  him.  Fourthly,  he \nshould  not  be  contentious,  but  he  should  be- \nhave lovingly  to  those  by  whom  God  may  be \npleased  to  purify  him. \n\nRemain  steadfastly  in  thyself  until  thou  art \ndrawn  out  of  thyself  without  any  act  of  thine. \n\nObserve  whether  the  intimacy  between  good \npeople  arises  from  inclination  or  from  simplicity. \nThe  first  is  far  too  common. \n\n\nSPIKITUAL  MAXIMS.  273 \n\nOffer  not  thyself  too  much  to  any  one. \nThose  please  least  who  offer  most. . \n\nAn  interior  humble  walk  beseems  thee. \nWhen  a  thing  acts  in  opposition  to  its  nature, \nit  is  always  unbecoming  to  it. \n\nHappy  the  man  whose  words  and  ways  are \nfew.  The  more  words  and  ways  there  are  in \nany  man,  the  more  there  is  of  what  is  acci- \ndental. Stay  within  thyself,  and  be  not  like \nsuch  men,  otherwise  thou  wilt  suffer  for  it. \n\nSome  men  act  from  their  sensible  feelings \nboth  in  suffering  and  in  joy ;  but  a  man  should \nnot  look  to  himself  in  this. \n\nIn  the  spiritual  annihilation  of  self  the  final \nconsummation  is  attained.  When  Christ  had \nsaid,  \"Into  Thy  hands  I  commend  My  spirit,\" \nHe  added  immediately,  u  It  is  consummated.\" \n\nGod  and  the  devil  are  in  man.  He  who \nguides  himself  and  he  who  forsakes  himself \ndiscover  the  difference  (i.e.  the  self-willed \nfind  in  themselves  hell,  and  the  detached \nheaven). \n\nHe  who  desires  to  have  rest  at  all  times \nmust  be  on  his  guard  against  himself  in  this  as \nin  every  thing  else  (i.  e.  this  desire  is  a  species \nof  self-seeking). \n\nHe  who  is  interior  amid  exterior  things  is \n\n\n274  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nmuch  more  interior  than  he  who  is  only  interior \nwhen  within  himself. \n\nIt  is  good  for  a  man  to  guide  himself  in \nnothing ;  and  he  is  on  the  right  road  who  con- \ntemplates under  the  forms  of  things  their  eternal \nessences. \n\nThere  are  many  more  reasoning  men  than \nsimple  men.  Those  are  called  reasoning  men \nin  whom  reason  rules.  But  the  simple  man, \nthrough  his  inaction,  is  freed  from  the  multi- \nplicity of  images  which  are  generated  by  sen- \nsible objects,  and  he  does  not  contemplate  things \nas  sensible,  for  simplicity  has  become  his  nature, \nand  he  is  like  a  vessel  (full  of  God)  and  like  a \nchild. \n\nHe  who  wishes  to  possess  all  things  must \nbecome  as  nothing  to  himself  and  all  things. \n\nHow  happy  is  the  man  who  abides  steadfast \nagainst  multiplicity !  What  a  sensible  entrance \nhe  has  into  familiar  intercourse  with  heaven ! \n\nA  good  intention  often  impedes  true  union. \n\nOur  eyes  should  not  look  outwards,  except \nto  rid  ourselves  of  interior  images. \n\nWe  should  bear  as  readily  with  that  part  of  us \nwhich  comes  from  Adam  (i.  e.  the  consequences \nof  the  fall)  as  with  that  by  which  we  attain \neternal  bliss. \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  MAXIMS.  275 \n\nA  detached  man  is  always  interiorly  alike. \n\nWhen  a  man  still  complains  and  is  impa- \ntient, all  this  springs  from  imperfection.  It \nmust  therefore  be  got  rid  of. \n\nAll  those  who  allow  themselves  a  wrong \nliberty  make  themselves  their  own  aim  and \nobject. \n\nA  detached  man  must  be  unformed  from \nthe  forms  and  images  of  creatures ;  he  must  be \nformed  upon  Christ,  and  transformed  into  the \nGodhead. \n\nHe  who  regards  himself  in  Christ  lets  all \nthings  follow  their  rightful  course. \n\nWhen  a  man  has  died  to  self  and  begun  to \nlive  in  Christ,  it  is  well  with  him. \n\nWhen  a  man  strives  by  turning  inwards  to \nconform  himself  to  the  Truth,  it  is  clearly  brought \nhome  to  him  that  he  has  gone  forth  out  of \nhimself,  and  he  observes  that  there  is  still  some- \nthing of  the  creature  in  him,  on  which  the \nattraction  acted.  In  this  he  bears  with  him- \nself, and  perceives  that  he  has  not  yet  ceased \nfrom  all  action.  Now,  thus  to  bear  with  self \nis  to  become  simple.  The  going  out  of  self \nproduces  a  kind  of  weariness;  but  when  he \nhas  turned  away  from  creatures  this  weariness \npasses  off. \n\n\n276  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nWhat  is  a  truly  detached  man's  object  in  all \nthings?  It  is  to  die  to  himself;  and  when  he \ndies  to  himself  all  things  die  to  him. \n\nWhat  is  the  least  obstacle  ?  It  is  a  thought. \nWhat  is  the  greatest  obstacle  !  It  is  when  the \nsoul  abides  in  the  obstinacy  of  its  self-will. \n\nA  detached  man  should  not  let  any  moment \npass  away  unmarked. \n\nA  detached  man  should  not  be  always  looking \nto  see  what  he  needs,  but  he  should  be  always \nlooking  to  see  what  he  can  do  without. \n\nIf  a  detached  man  wishes  to  conform  him- \nself to  the  Truth,  he  must  hi  the  first  place  be \ndiligent  in  turning  inwards  from  things  of  sense, \nfor  God  is  a  spirit.  Secondly,  he  must  take \nnote  whether  he  has  attached  himself  to  any \nobstacle  (i.  e.  any  thing  which  stands  between \nhim  and  God).  Thirdly,  he  must  observe \nwhether  he  is  his  own  guide  in  any  thing, \nowing  to  the  sensual  appetite  having  got  the \nstart.  Fourthly,  he  must,  in  the  light  which \nfills  his  soul,  consider  the  presence  of  the  all- \npenetrating  Divine  essence  in  him,  and  that  he \nis  one  of  Its  vessels. \n\nThe  more  a  man  turns  away  from  himsel \nand  all  created  things,  the  more  perfect  are  the \nunion  and  bliss  to  which  he  attains. \n\n\nSPIRITUAL  MAXIMS.  277 \n\nWouldst  thou  be  a  detached  man?  take \ncare  that,  however  God  may  act  towards  thee, \nwhether  directly  by  Himself  or  indirectly  by  His \ncreatures,  thou  abidest  always  the  same,  by  a \ncomplete  renunciation  of  what  is  thine. \n\nKeep  thy  senses  closed  to  every  image \nwhich  may  present  itself. \n\nBe  empty  of  every  thing  which  the  outward- \ngazing  mind  selects,  which  takes  captive  the \nwill,  and  which  brings  earthly  joy  or  delight \ninto  the  heart: \n\nRest  on  nothing  which  is  not  God. \n\nIf  thou  art  where  a  sin  or  imperfection  is \ncommitted,  add  not  aught  of  thine  to  it,  and \nhave  nothing  to  do  with  it. \n\nHe  who  always  dwells  with  himself  becomes \npossessed  of  very  ample  means. \n\nThe  recreation  which  a  detached  man  grants \nto  his  nature  should  be  confined  to  strict  neces- \nsity, and  it  should  be  taken  in  harmless  occupa- \ntions, from  which  he  can  readily  and  without \nattachment  turn  away  to  God. \n\nThe  more  or  less  detachment  a  man  has,  the \nmore  or  less  will  he  be  disturbed  by  transitory \nthings. \n\nIt  happened  once  to  a  half-detached  man \nthat,  on  a  certain  occasion  when  he  had  been \n\n\n278  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ntoo  self-conscious  in  suffering,  it  was  said  to \nhim: — Thou  shouldst  be  so  attentive  to  Me \nand  so  forgetful  of  thyself,  that  when  thou \nknowest  it  is  well  with  Me  thou  shouldst  care \nnothing  how  it  fares  with  thee. \n\nIn  the  case  of  a  detached  man  who  draws \nhis  senses  inwards  from  external  objects  and \nestablishes  himself  in  the  inner  castle  of  his \nsoul,  the  less  he  finds  within  to  cling  to,  the \nmore  painful  are  his  interior  sufferings,  and  the \nmore  quickly  he  dies,  the  more  swiftly  he  bursts \nthrough  to  God. \n\nTo  give  the  senses  a  wide  field  withdraws  a \nman  from  his  interior. \n\nSee  that  thou  undertakest  nothing  which \nwill  carry  thee  out  of  thyself. \n\nIf  things  come  in  search  of  thee,  let  them \nnot  find  thee. \n\nBe  quick  in  turning  inwards  into  thyself. \n\nNatural  life  shows  itself  in  movement  and \nin  the  operations  of  the  senses.  He  who  de- \ntaches himself  from  himself  in  this,  and  dies  to \nhimself  in  stillness,  begins  a  supernatural  life. \n\nSome  persons  find  no  hindrance  in  going \nout  of  themselves,  but  they  want  steadfastness \nin  this  state. \n\nEstablish  thyself  in   absolute   detachmen \n\n\nSPIKITUAL  MAXIMS.  279 \n\nfor  an  unbounded  longing,  even  for  what  is \ndivine,  when  it  is  excessive,  may  become  a \nsecret  obstacle. \n\nA  detached  man  should  keep  the  powers  of \nhis  soul  under  such  restraint  that,  on  looking \nwithin,  this  is  apparent  to  him. \n\nA  detached  man  remains  always  inactive  as \nregards  himself,  just  as  if  he  were  unconscious \nof  himself ;  for  in  that  object,  which  is  God,  all \nthings  are  well  and  harmoniously  ordered  in \nhim. \n\nGive  heed  also  to  thy  outward  man  that  it \nbe  at  one  with  thy  inward  man,  by  the  subjec- \ntion of  all  fleshly  appetites. \n\nTo  return  again  into  God  by  detachment  is \noften  more  pleasing  to  Him  than  a  self-satisfied \nstability. \n\nGather  together  and  draw  in  thy  soul  from \nthe  external  senses,  through  which  it  has  dissi- \npated itself  upon  the  multiplicity  of  outward \nthings. \n\nGo  in  again,  and  return  over  and  over  again \ninto  unity,  and  enjoy  God. \n\nBe  steadfast,  and  never  rest  content  until \nthou  hast  obtained  the  now  of  eternity  as  thy \npresent  possession  in  this  life,  so  far  as  this  is \npossible  to  human  infirmity. \n\n\n280  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  LIY. \n\nOf  the  high  questions  which  the  well-exercised  daughter \nput  to  her  spiritual  father. \n\nAfter  the  introduction  of  the  outward  into \nthe  inward  man  had  taken  place  in  a  way  con- \nformable to  right  reason,  high  thoughts  arose  in \nthe  daughter's  mind,  and  she  inquired  whether \nshe  might  yet  venture  to  ask  questions  about \nthem.  The  Servitor  replied: — Yes;  if  thou  hast \nbeen  duly  led  through  the  proper  intermediate \nstages,  it  is  quite  lawful  now  for  thy  spiritual \nintelligence  to  ask  about  high  things.  Ask \nwhat  thou  wilt.  She  made  answer : — Tell  me \nwhat  is  God?  and  where  is  God?  and  how  is \nGod  ? — I  mean  how  He  is  single  and  yet  three- \nfold? \n\nThe  Servitor  replied : — God  knows,  these \nare  high  questions.  As  to  the  first — what  is \nGod? — thou  must  know  that  all  the  learned \ndoctors  who  ever  were  cannot  fully  explain \nit;  for  God  is  above  all  sense  and  reason. \nAnd  yet  a  diligent  man,  by  hard  seeking, \ngains  some  knowledge  of  God,  though  in  a \nvery  far-off  way;  and  it  is  in  this  knowledge \nthat  man's  supreme  bliss  consists.  Thus  it  was \nthat  in  days   of  old  certain  virtuous  heathen \n\n\nWHAT  GOD  IS.  281 \n\ndoctors  sought  after  God,  especially  the  intel- \nlectual Aristotle.  He  pried  minutely  into  the \ncourse  of  nature,  in  order  to  discover  who  he  is \nwho  is  the  lord  of  nature.  He  searched  after \nHim  diligently,  and  found  Him.  He  proved, \nfrom  the  well-ordered  course  of  nature,  that \nthere  must  necessarily  be  one  only  prince  and \nlord  of  all  creatures,  and  that  is  what  we  mean \nby  the  name  God. \n\nOf  this  God  and  Lord  we  know  thus  much : \nthat  He  is  a  substantial  being;  that  He  is \neverlasting,  without  before  or  after;  that  He \nis  simple  and  unchangeable;  an  unembodied \nand  essential  Spirit ;  whose  being  is  to  live  and \nwork;  whose  essential  reason  knows  all  things \nin  itself  and  by  itself;  whose  being's  fathom- \nless delight  is  in  itself;  and  who  is  to  Him- \nself, and  to  all  who  shall  enjoy  Him  in  the  way \nof  contemplation,  a  supernatural,  unspeakable, \nand  entrancing  bliss. \n\nThe  daughter  looked  upwards  and  said: — \nThis  is  good  to  hear,  for  it  stirs  the  heart  and \nlifts  the  soul  sursum,  on  high  above  itself. \nTherefore,  dear  father,  tell  me  more  about  it. \n\nHe  answered: — Behold,  then.  The  divine \nessence,  of  which  it  is  said  that  it  is  a  rational \nsubstance,  of  such  nature  that  no  mortal  eye \n\n\n282  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ncan  see  it  in  itself,  may  nevertheless  be  dis- \ncerned in  its  effects,  just  as  we  trace  a  good \ncraftsman  in  his  works.  For,  as  Paul  says, \ncreatures  are  like  a  mirror  which  reflect  God. \nAnd  this  mode  of  gaining  knowledge  we  term \nreflection  (speculiren). \n\nBut  let  us  pause  here  awhile,  and  reflect \nupon  the  high  and  venerable  Master  as  mir- \nrored in  his  works.  Look  above  thee  and \naround  thee  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  uni- \nverse, and  see  how  wide  and  high  the  beautiful \nheaven  is  in  its  swift  course,  and  how  nobly  its \nMaster  has  adorned  it  with  the  seven  planets, \neach  of  which,  not  to  reckon  in  the  moon,  is  much \nbigger  than  the  whole  earth,  and  how  He  has \ndecked  it  with  the  countless  multitude  of  the \nbright  stars.  Oh!  when  in  summer  time  the \nbeautiful  sun  bursts  forth  unclouded  and  serene, \nwhat  fruitfulness  and  blessings  it  bestows  un- \nceasingly upon  the  earth  I  See  how  the  leaves \nand  grass  shoot  up,  and  the  lovely  flowers  smile; \nhow  forest,  heath,  and  meadow  ring  again  with \nthe  sweet  song  of  nightingales  and  other  little \nbirds ;  how  all  those  little  creatures,  which  stem \nwinter  had  shut  up,  issue  forth  rejoicing,  and \npair  together;  and  how  men  too,  both  young \nand  old,  entranced  with  joy,  disport  themselves- \n\n\nWHAT  GOD  IS.  283 \n\nright  merrily.  All,  gentle  God,  if  Thou  art  so \nlovely  in  Thy  creatures,  how  exceeding  beauti- \nful and  ravishing  Thou  must  be  in  Thyself! \nBut  look  again,  I  pray  thee,  and  behold  the \nfour  elements — earth,  water,  air,  and  fire,  with \nall  the  wondrous  things  which  they  contain  in \nmanifold  variety — men,  beasts,  birds,  fishes,  and \nsea-monsters ;  and  mark  how  they  all  cry  aloud \ntogether,  Praise  and  honour  be  to  the  unfathom- \nable immensity  that  is  in  Thee !  Who  is  it, \nLord,  that  sustains  all  this  f  Who  feeds  it  all  % \nIt  is  Thou  who  providest  for  all,  each  in  its  own \nway ;  for  great  and  small,  for  rich  and  poor. \nIt  is  Thou,  O  God,  who  doest  this.  Thou,  O \nGod,  art  God  indeed ! \n\nCome,  daughter,  thou  hast  now  found  thy \nGod,  whom  thy  heart  has  so  long  sought  after. \nLook  upwards,  then,  with  sparkling  eyes  and \nradiant  face  and  bounding  heart,  and  behold \nHim  and  embrace  Him  with  the  infinite  out- \nstretched arms  of  thy  soul  and  thy  affections, \nand  give  thanks  and  praise  to  Him,  the  noble \nPrince  of  all  creatures.  See  how,  by  gazing  on \nthis  mirror,  there  springs  up  speedily,  in  a  soul \nsusceptible  of  such  impressions,  an  intense  in- \nward jubilee;  for  by  jubilee  is  meant  a  joy \nwhich  no  tongue  can  tell,  but  which  pours  it- \n\n\n284  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nself  with  might  through  heart  and  soul.  Alas ! \nI  feel  now  within  me  that,  be  it  painful  or \npleasant,  my  soul's  closed  mouth  is  opened  to \nthee,  and  I  must  needs  tell  thee,  for  God's \nglory,  somewhat  of  my  hidden  secrets,  which \nI  never  yet  have  told  to  any  one.  See,  I  knew \na  friar  preacher  who,  at  the  beginning  of  his \nconversion,  used  commonly  to  receive  from  God \ntwice  every  day,  morning  and  evening,  during \nten  years,  an  outpouring  of  grace  like  this,  and \nit  lasted  for  about  the  space  of  two  nocturns.* \nAt  these  moments  he  was  so  utterly  absorbed \nin  God,  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  that  he  could  not \nspeak  of  it.  Sometimes  he  would  lovingly  con- \nverse with  God  within  him,  while  at  other  times \nhe  would  sigh  piteously,  or  weep  longingly,  or \nagain  smile  silently.  It  often  seemed  to  him  as \nif  he  were  floating  in  the  air,  and  swimming \nbetween  time  and  eternity  in  the  deep  sea  of \nGod's  unfathomable  marvellousness.  And  his \nheart  became  so  full  through  this,  that  he  would \nat  times  lay  his  hand  upon  it,  as  it  beat  wildly, \nsaying : — Alas,  my  heart,  how  will  it  fare  with \nthee  to-day  f  One  day  it  seemed  to  him  that \nthe  Eternal  Father's  heart  was,  in  a  spiritual \nand  ineffable  manner,  pressed  tenderly,  and  with \n*  About  half  an  hour. \n\n\nSPIEITUAL  JUBILEE.  285 \n\nnaught  between  them,  upon  his  heart,  as  it  lay \nopen  over  against  the  Father's  heart  in  longing \ndesire,  and  it  appeared  to  him  that  the  Father's \nheart,  in  a  way  of  love  transcending  all  forms \nand  images,  spoke  in  his  heart  the  uncreated \nWord,  the  Eternal  Wisdom.  Then  he  began \nto  exclaim  joyously  in  spiritual  jubilee : — Be- \nhold now,  my  loveliest  love  !  thus  do  I  lay  bare \nto  Thee  my  heart,  and  in  simplicity  and  naked- \nness with  regard  to  all  created  things  I  embrace \nThy  formless  Godhead.  Alas,  my  love !  Thou \nwho  art  far  above  all  other  loves!  Earthly \nlovers,  however  greatly  they  may  love,  must \nneeds  bear  to  be  distinct  and  separate  from \neach  other ;  but  Thou,  O  unfathomable  fulness \nof  all  love,  meltest  away  into  Thy  beloved's \nheart,  and,  in  virtue  of  Thy  being  absolutely \nall  in  all,  pourest  Thyself  so  utterly  into  the \nsoul's  essence  that  no  part  of  Thee,  the  loved \nOne,  remains  outside,  and  is  not  lovingly  made \none  with  Thy  beloved. \n\nThe  daughter  answered : — Ah,  God  !  what \na  great  grace  it  is  for  any  one  to  be  thus  caught \nup  into  God  in  jubilee.  But  I  would  fain  know \nwhether  this  is  the  most  perfect  kind  of  union \nor  not.  The  Servitor  replied : — No  ;  it  is  only \na  preliminary  preparation  for   arriving   at   an \n\n\n286  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENEY  SUSO. \n\nessential  mode  of  being  taken  up  into  God. \nShe  answered : — What  mean  you  by  essential \nand  non-essential  I  He  replied : — I  call  him  an \nessential  man  who,  by  the  good  and  persevering \nexercise  of  all  the  virtues,  has  so  completely \nmastered  them,  that  the  practice  of  them  in  their \nhighest  perfection  has  become  pleasant  to  him, \nand  that  they  dwell  in  him  abidingly,  as  the \nsunshine  in  the  sun.  On  the  other  hand,  I  call \nhim  a  non-essential  man  in  whom  the  light  of \nvirtue  shines  in  a  borrowed,  unsteadfast,  and \nimperfect  way,  as  the  moonlight  in  the  moon. \nThe  sweet  abundance  of  sensible  grace  which  I \nhave  just  described  is  such  a  dainty  treat  to  the \nspirit  of  a  non-essential  man,  that  he  would  fain \nalways  have  it;  and  as  its  presence  begets  in \nhim  delight,  even  so  its  withdrawal  causes  in \nhim  undue  sadness,  as  I  will  now  show  you  by \nan  example.  It  happened  once,  when  the  Ser- \nvitor had  gone  into  the  chapter-house,  and  his \nheart  was  full  of  heavenly  jubilee,  that  the  por- \nter came  and  summoned  him  to  the  door  to  a \nwoman  who  wanted  to  confess  to  him.  The \nServitor  tore  himself  unwillingly  from  his  inte- \nrior joys,  and,  receiving  the  porter  harshly,  re- \nplied, that  the  woman  must  send  for  some  one \nelse,  as  he  would  not  confess  her  then.     Now \n\n\nWITHDEAWAL  OF  DIVINE  CONSOLATIONS.  287 \n\nshe  had  a  burdened  and  sinful  heart,  and  her \nmessage  was,  that  she  had  a  particular  drawing \nto  seek  consolation  from  him,  and  that  she  would \nconfess  to  no  one  else.  But  when  she  heard \nthat  he  would  not  come  to  her,  she  began  to \nweep  from  grief  of  heart,  and  going  aside  into \na  corner,  sat  down  there  in  wretchedness,  and \nwept  long  and  bitterly.  Meanwhile  God  with- \ndrew very  quickly  from  the  Servitor  the  delights \nof  sensible  grace,  and  his  heart  became  as  hard \nas  a  flint;  and  when  he  sought  to  know  the \nmeaning  of  this,  God  answered  him : — As  thou \nhast  driven  from  thee  uncomforted  the  poor \nwoman  with  her  burdened  heart,  even  so  I  have \nwithdrawn  from  thee  My  divine  consolations. \nThe  Servitor  sighed  deeply  and  beat  his  breast, \nand  ran  with  speed  to  the  door,  and,  as  he  did \nnot  find  the  woman  there,  was  in  great  distress. \nThe  porter  ran  about  in  every  direction  looking \nfor  her,  and  when  at  last  he  found  her,  where \nshe  was  sitting  weeping,  he  brought  her  back \nwith  him  to  the  door,  and  the  Servitor,  receiving \nher  with  great  kindness,  graciously  consoled  her \nrepentant  heart.  Then  he  went  back  from  her \nto  the  chapter-house,  and  immediately  in  an  in- \nstant the  kind  Lord  was  there  again  with  His \ndivine  consolations,  just  as  before. \n\n\n288  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENTtY  SUSO. \n\nThe  daughter  answered: — He  may  well  bear \nsufferings  to  whom  God  gives  such  rapturous \njubilee.  The  Servitor  replied: — Oh!  it  had \nall  to  be  paid  for  afterwards  with  great  suffer- \ning, as  has  been  already  related.  At  length, \nhowever,  when  all  this  had  passed  away,  and \nGod's  appointed  time  had  come,  this  same  grace \nof  jubilee  returned,  and  was  with  him  in  an \nabiding  manner  both  at  home  and  abroad,  in \ncompany  and  when  alone.  Ofttimes  in  the \nbath  or  at  table  the  same  grace  was  with  him ; \nbut  its  working  was  now  interior,  and  no  longer \nbroke  forth  into  exterior  manifestations. \n\n\nChapter  LV. \n\nAn  explanation  where  and  how  God  is. \nThe  good  daughter  said: — Sir,  I  have  now \nindeed  found  out  what  God  is ;    but  I  would \nfain  know  also  where  God  is.     He  answered : — \nThou  shalt  hear  this.     The  learned  doctors  say \nthat  God  has  no  where,  but  that  He  is  all  in  all. \nOpen  then  the  inward  ears  of  thy  soul  and  givt \ngood  heed.     These  same  doctors  tell  us  in  the \nart  of  logic,  that  we  come  to  know  what  a  thim \nis  through  its  name.    Now,  one  doctor  says  thai \n\n\nWHERE  GOD  IS.  289 \n\nbeing  is  the  first  name  of  God.  Turn,  then, \nthine  eyes  to  being  in  its  pure  and  naked  sim- \nplicity, and  take  no  note  of  this  or  that  partial \nbeing.  Consider  only  being  in  itself,  unmixed \nwith  all  non-being.  For  as  all  non-being  is  the \nnegation  of  all-being,  even  so  being  in  itself  is \nthe  negation  of  all  non-being.  A  thing  which \nhas  yet  to  be,  or  which  once  was,  is  not  now \nat  this  moment  in  actual  being.  Moreover, \nwe  can  have  no  knowledge  of  mixed  being  or \nnon-being,  unless  we  take  into  account  that \nwhich  is  all-being.  For  if  we  would  under- \nstand what  any  thing  is,  the  first  point  which \nour  mind  meets  with  in  it  is  being,  and  this  is  a \nbeing  which  is  the  efficient  cause  of  all  things. \nIt  is  not  the  partial  and  particular  being  of  this \nor  that  creature;  for  partial  being  is  always \nmixed  with  some  other  element,  and  has  a \ncapacity  for  receiving  something  new  into  it. \nTherefore,  the  nameless  Divine  Being  must  be  in \nitself  a  being  that  is  all-being,  and  that  sustains \nall  particular  beings  by  its  presence. \n\nIt  is  a  proof  of  the  singular  blindness  of \nman's  reason,  that  it  cannot  examine  into  that \nwhich  it  contemplates  first  before  every  thing, \nand  without  which  it  cannot  perceive  any  thing. \nIt  is  with  the  reason  as  with  the  eye.  When \nu \n\n\n290  LITE  OF  BLESSED  HENKY  SUSO. \n\nthe  eye  is  intent  upon  observing  a  variety  of \ncoloured  objects,  it  does  not  notice  the  light \nwhich  enables  it  to  see  all  these  objects,  and \neven  if  it  looks  at  the  light,  it  still  does  not  see \nit.  Thus,  too,  is  it  with  our  soul's  eye ;  when  it \nlooks  at  this  or  that  particular  being,  it  takes \nno  heed  of  the  being,  which  is  every  where  one, \nabsolute  and  simple,  and  which  enables  it  to \napprehend  all  other  beings.  Hence  a  wise  doc- \ntor says,  that  the  eye  of  our  intelligence,  owing \nto  its  infirmity,  is  affected  towards  that  being \nwhich  is  in  itself  the  most  manifest  of  all  beings, \nas  the  eye  of  a  bat  or  a  night-owl  towards  the \nbright  light  of  the  sun;  for  particular  beings \ndistract  and  dazzle  the  mind,  so  that  it  cannot \nsee  the  Divine  darkness,  which  is  in  itself  the \nbrightest  of  all  brightness. \n\nOpen  now  thy  inward  eyes  and  gaze  as  best \n■thou  canst  on  being  in  its  naked  simple  purity, \nand  thou  wilt  see  at  once  that  it  comes  from  no \none,  and  has  no  before  nor  after,  and  no  ca- \npacity of  change,  either  from  within  or  from \nwithout,  because  it  is  a  simple  being.  Thou \nwilt  note  too  that  it  is  the  most  actual,  the  most \npresent,  and  the  most  perfect  of  all  beings,  with- \nout flaw  or  alteration,  because  it  is  absolutely \none  in  naked  simplicity.     And  this  truth  is  so \n\n\nWHERE  GOD  IS.  291 \n\nevident  to  an  enlightened  reason,  that  it  is  im- \npossible for  it  to  think  otherwise ;  for  one  point \nproves  and  implies  the  other.  Thus,  because  it \nis  a  simple  being,  it  must  needs  be  the  first  of \nbeings,  and  without  origin  and  everlasting ;  and \nbecause  it  is  the  first  and  everlasting  and  simple, \nit  must  be  the  most  present.  It  is  at  the  very \nhighest  summit  of  perfection  and  simplicity,  to \nwhich  nothing  can  be  added  and  from  which \nnothing  can  be  taken  away.  If  thou  canst  un- \nderstand what  I  have  just  told  thee  about  the \npure  Godhead,  thou  wilt  have  been  guided  a \nlong  way  into  the  incomprehensible  light  of \nGod's  hidden  truth.  This  pure  and  simple \nbeing  is  the  first  and  highest  cause  of  all  beings \nwhich  have  a  cause  (created  beings),  and  by  its \npeculiar  presence  it  encloses,  as  the  beginning \nand  end  of  all  things,  whatever  comes  into  being \nin  time.  It  is  altogether  in  all  things,  and  alto- \ngether outside  all  things.  Hence  a  certain  doc- \ntor says : — God  is  a  circular  ring,  whose  centre \nis  every  where  and  circumference  nowhere. \n\nThe  maiden  answered : — Praised  be  God,  I \nhave  been  shown,  as  far  as  can  be,  what  God  is \nand  where  God  is.  I  would  fain  now  learn \nhow,  if  God  is  so  exceeding  simple,  He  can  be \nat  the  same  time  threefold. \n\n\n292  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nThe  Servitor  replied : — Each  several  being, \nthe  more  simple  it  is  in  itself,  the  more  manifold \nit  is  in  its  productive  efficacy.  That  which  has \nnothing  gives  nothing,  and  that  which  has  much \ncan  give  much.  Now,  I  have  already  spoken  of \nthat  inflowing  and  overflowing  fountain-head  of \ngood  which  God  is  in  Himself,  and  of  God's \nunfathomable  supernatural  goodness  which  con- \nstrains Him  not  to  keep  all  this  to  Himself,  but \nto  communicate  it  joyfully  both  within  and  with- \nout Himself.  But  the  highest  and  most  perfect \noutpouring  of  the  supreme  Good  must  of  neces- \nsity take  place  within  itself,  and  this  can  be \nnone  other  than  a  present,  interior,  substantial, \npersonal,  and  natural  outpouring,  necessary,  yet \nwithout  compulsion,  alike  infinite  and  perfect. \nAll  other  outpourings  which  take  place  in  time \nand  in  creatures  are  but  a  reflection  of  the  eter- \nnal outpouring  of  the  unfathomable  Divine  good- \nness. And  learned  doctors  say  that,  in  the \noutflow  of  creatures  from  their  primal  fountain- \nhead,  there  is  a  circular  return-movement  of  the \nend  to  the  beginning;  for  as  the  outflowing  of \nthe  Person  from  God  is  an  image  and  repre- \nsentation of  the  origin  of  creatures,  so  also  it \nforeshadows  the  flowing  back  again  of  creatures \ninto  God. \n\n\nTHE  TRINITY  IN  UNITY.  293 \n\nNow,  observe  the  difference  between  the \ncreature's  outpouring  and  God's  outpouring. \nInasmuch  as  a  creature  is  only  a  partial  being, \nits  giving  and  its  outpouring  is  also  partial  and  in \nmeasure.  Thus  a  human  father  gives  his  son, \nwhen  he  begets  him,  only  a  part  of  his  own  be- \ning ;  he  does  not  give  him  wholly  and  eutirely \nall  that  he  is,  for  he  himself  is  but  a  partial  good. \nBut  since  the  Divine  outpouring  is  manifestly \nof  a  far  more  interior  and  nobler  kind  than  the \ncreature's  outpouring,  in  proportion  to  the  great- \nness of  the  good  which  God  is  in  Himself  and \nHis  immeasurable  superiority  over  all  other \ngoods,  it  follows  as  a  necessary  consequence \nfrom  this  that  the  outpouring  must  be  like  the \nbeing;  and  this  cannot  be  unless  God  pours  out \nHis  being  according  to  the  personal  relations. \n\nIf  now  with  cleansed  eye  thou  canst  look \ninto  and  gaze  upon  the  most  pure  goodness  of \nthe  supreme  Good,  which  goodness  is  of  its  own \nnature  a  present  active  principle  of  the  natural \nand  spontaneous  love  with  which  the  supreme \nGood  loves  itself,  thou  wilt  behold  the  exuberant \nsupernatural  outpouring  of  the  Word  from  the \nFather,  by  which  act  of  begetting  and  speaking \nall  things  are  spoken  forth  and  produced;  and \nthou  wilt  see  too  in  the  supreme  Good  and  in \n\n\n294  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthe  highest  outpouring  the  divine  Trinity,  Fa- \nther, Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  necessarily  bursting \nforth.  And  if  it  be  that  from  the  supreme  es- \nsential goodness  the  highest  and  most  perfect \noutpouring  gushes  forth,  it  follows  that  there \nmust  be  in  the  aforenamed  Trinity  the  most \nsupreme  and  intimate  community  of  behig,  as \nwell  as  the  most  perfect  similarity  and  identity \nof  that  being,  which  the  Persons  possess  in  the \njubilee  of  their  outpouring,  without  any  division \nor  partition  of  the  substance  and  the  almighti- \nness  of  the  three  Persons  of  the  Godhead. \n\nThe  maiden  exclaimed: — O  wonderful!  I \nswim  in  the  Godhead  as  an  eagle  in  the  air. \nHe  answered: — It  is  impossible  to  express  in \nwords  how  the  Trinity  of  the  Divine  Persons \ncan  subsist  in  the  unity  of  one  essence.  Never-* \ntheless,  to  say  what  can  be  said  about  it,  St. \nAugustin  lays  down  that  the  Father  is  the  foun- \ntain-head of  all  the  Godhead  of  the  Son  and \nof  the  Holy'  Ghost,  personally  and  essentially. \nSt.  Denys  says,  that  in  the  Father  there  is  an \noutflowing  of  the  Godhead,  and  that  this  out- \nflowing or  stream  pours  itself  out  naturally  in \nthe  outrunning  Word,  who  is  the  Son  by  nature. \nHe  also  pours  Himself  out  according  to  the \nloving  bountifulness  of  the  will  into  the  Son, \n\n\nTHE  TKINITY  IN  UNITY.  Z*dj \n\nand  the  Son  in  turn  pours  Himself  out  accord- \ning to  the  lovingness  of  the  will  into  the  Father, \nand  this  is  called  a  reciprocal  love,  and  is  the \nHoly  Ghost.  The  hidden  meaning  of  this  is \ndisclosed  and  proved  to  us  by  that  bright  light \nthe  dear  St.  Thomas,  the  teacher,  who  speaks \nthus: — In  the  outpouring  of  the  Word  from \nthe  Father's  heart  and  reason,  it  must  needs  be \nthat  God,  with  His  luminous  intellect,  contem- \nplates Himself,  bending  back,  as  it  were,  upon \nHis  Divine  essence;  for  if  the  reason  of  the \nFather  had  not  the  Divine  essence  for  its  object, \nthe  Word  conceived  would  be  a  creature  and \nnot  God,  which  would  be  false.  But  in  the  way \ndescribed,  the  Word  is  a  Divine  being  from  a \nDivine  being.  Again,  this  backward  look  upon \nthe  Divine  essence  in  the  reason  of  the  Father \nmust  take  place  in  a  manner  productive  of  a \nnatural  likeness,  otherwise  the  Word  would  not \nbe  the  Son.  Here,  then,  we  have  unity  of \nessence  with  diversity  of  Persons;  and,  as  a \ngood  attestation  of  this  distinction,  the  high- \nsoaring  eagle,  St.  John,  has  said : — \"  The  Word \nwas  in  the  beginning  with  God.\" \n\nWith  regard  to  the  outpouring  of  the  Holy \nSpirit,  thou  shouldst  know  that  the  substance \nof  the  Divine  intellect  is  an  act  of  cognition  (in- \n\n\n296  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ntellectio),  and  this,  moreover,  must  have  an  in- \nclination for  its  object  under  the  form  in  which \nit  has  been  received  into  the  intellect.    This  in- \nclination is  the  will,  and  the  longing  of  the  will \nis  to  seek  after  pleasure  as  best  it  can.     Thou \nshouldst  also  observe  that  the  object  loved  is  not \nin  the  person  loving  under  the  likeness  of  its  natu- \nral form,  as  is  the  case  with  the  object  of  the  in- \ntellect in  the  light  of  the  cognition.    Now,  inas- \nmuch as  the  Word  flows  out  from  the  looking \nforth  of  the  Father  according  to  the  form  of  the \nnature,  without  confusion  of  Persons,  this  outpour- \ning of  the  Father  is  called  a  begetting.    But  since \nthis  mode  of  procession  does  not  occur  in  the  out- \nflowing of  the  will  and  of  the  love,  which  is  the \nthird  Person,  who  is  poured  forth  like  a  stream \nof  love  by  the  Father,  and  also  by  His  express \nimage  the  Son,  from  out  His  very  inmost  depths, \ntherefore  this  outflowing  cannot  be  termed  a  Son \nor  begotten.     And  since  this  love  is  in  the  will \nafter  an  intellectual  or  spiritual  fashion,  like  an \ninclination  or  love-bond  present  inwardly  in  the \nlover  towards  the  object  of  his  love,  the  third \nPerson  in  the  procession,  who  j)roceeds  accord- \ning to  the  loving  manner  of  the  will,  fittingly  re- \nceives the  name  of  Spirit.   But  when  a  man  has \nreached  this  point  he  is  transformed  by  the  Divine \n\n\nDIFFERENT  VIEWS  OF  GOD.  297 \n\nlight  in  that  mysterious  way  which  they  only  can \nunderstand  who  have  experienced  it. \n\nThe  daughter  said : — Ah,  sir,  this  is  indeed \na  sublime  fulness  of  Christian  doctrine.  Never- \ntheless, there  are  to  be  met  with  certain  intel- \nlectual men  who  deny  what  has  been  just  said \nabout  God,  and  whose  view  is,  that  he  who \nwould  attain  to  perfect  union  will  find  the  con- \ntemplation of  God  a  hurtful  impediment.  He \nshould,  on  the  contrary,  according  to  them, \ndivest  himself  of  God  and  of  the  spirit,  and \ncast  behind  him  all  visions,  and  turn  himself \nonly  to  the  inwardly-shining  truth,  which  he  is \nhimself. \n\nHe  answered : — This  doctrine  is  false  if  the \nwords  are  taken  in  their  ordinary  sense.  There- \nfore keep  clear  of  it,  and  hearken  to  what  the \nChristian  faith  teaches  on  this  point.  The \ncommon  view  which  men  take  of  God  is  that \nHe  is  the  Lord  and  Creator  of  the  whole  world, \nwho  suffers  no  wickedness  to  pass  unpunished, \nand  no  good  deed  unrewarded.  He,  then,  who \ncommits  sin  regards  God  as  a  terrible  God ;  as \nthe  good  Job  said,  u  I  have  always  feared  God \nas  shipmen  fear  the  great  waves\"  (Job  xxxi.  23). \nHe  also  who  serves  God  for  reward  has  a  great \nand  munificent  God,  able  to  recompense  him \n\n\n298  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nabundantly.  But  a  well-exercised  and  experi- \nenced man,  who  by  manifold  dyings  has  rid \nhimself  of  the  sinful  things  which  God  hates, \nand  who  serves  God  at  all  times  with  burning \nlove,  this  man  loves  God  in  his  heart,  and  not \nafter  the  afore-mentioned  fashion.  And  he  has \nin  a  certain  sense  divested  himself  of  God,  and \nhe  loves  Him  as  his  heart's  own  loved  one ;  for \nservile  fear  has  passed  from  him,  as  St.  Paul \nsays.  Thus  to  the  spiritual  man  God  remains \ntruly  God  and  Lord,  and  yet  at  the  same  time \nhe  has  emptied  himself  of  God,  according  to  the \ngrosser  acceptation  of  the  term,  for  he  has  at- \ntained to  a  more  perfect  conception  of  Him. \n\nNow  as  to  the  way  in  which  a  man  should \nbe  divested  of  the  spirit,  hearken  to  the  true \naccount  of  it.  When  a  man  at  the  outset  of \nhis  interior  life  begins  to  observe  that  he  is  a \ncreature  composed  of  body  and  soul,  and  that \nhis  body  is  mortal,  but  that  his  soul  is  an  ever- \nlasting spirit,  he  gives  his  body  and  all  his \nanimal  nature  their  dismissal,  and  cleaves  to \nthe  spirit,  and  brings  his  body  into  subjection \nto  it;  and  every  thing  he  does  is  interiorly  in \nthought  directed  to  this  one  end,  how  he  may \ndiscover  the  superessential  Spirit,  and  how  lay \nhold  of  It,  and  how  unite  his  spirit  with  It.     A \n\n\nTRUE  AND  FALSE  VISIONS.  299 \n\nman  of  this  kind  is  called  a  spiritual  and  holy \nman.  Now,  supposing  that  all  goes  right  with \nhim,  after  he  has  exercised  himself  in  this  for \na  long  time,  and  yet  the  superessential  Spirit, \nthough  ever  playing  as  it  were  before  him,  has \nalways  eluded  his  grasp,  his  created  spirit  begins \nat  last  to  realise  its  own  helplessness,  to  abandon \nitself  by  an  utter  renunciation  of  self  to  the \neverlasting  Divine  might,  and  to  turn  away \nfrom  itself,  with  contempt  for  what  comes  from \nthe  senses,  to  the  immensity  of  the  Supreme \nBeing.  In  this  taking-up  of  the  spirit  into  God \nit  attains  to  a  forgetfulness  and  loss  of  self,  of \nwhich  St.  Paul  speaks,  \"I  live,  but  not  I\" \n(Gal.  ii.  20)  ;  and  of  which  Christ  has  said, \n\"Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit\"  (Matt.  ii.  3). \nThus  it  is  that  a  man's  spirit,  while  it  remains \nwhat  it  was  as  to  its  essence,  is  nevertheless \ndivested  of  itself  in  regard  to  the  possession  of \nitself  through  the  senses. \n\nI  will  also  explain  to  you  the  difference \nbetween  pure  truth  and  doubtful  visions.  To \ngaze  without  any  medium  upon  the  unveiled \nGodhead  is  undoubtedly  absolute  and  unmingled \ntruth;  and  the  more  intellectual  and  unima- \nginary  a  vision  is,  and  the  more  nearly  it  ap- \nproaches to  the  unveiled  contemplation,  the  more \n\n\n300  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nnoble  is  its  character.  Some  of  the  prophets \nhad  imaginary  visions,  as  Jeremias  and  others. \nAnd  snch  imaginary  visions  are  still  often  gran- \nted to  God's  intimate  friends,  sometimes  when \nasleep  and  sometimes  when  awake,  their  out- \nward senses  being  at  the  time  stilled  to  rest  and \nabstracted.  A  learned  doctor  says,  that  angelic \nappearances  happen  to  some  persons  oftener \nin  sleep  than  when  awake,  and  for  this  reason : \nbecause  a  man  in  sleep  is  in  a  state  of  greater \nquietude  with  regard  to  the  multiplicity  of  his \nexternal  operations  than  when  awake.  But  when \nit  is  that  a  vision  which  takes  place  in  sleep \nmay  and  ought  to  be  deemed  a  true  vision — as \nthe  dream  in  the  Old  Testament  which  King \nPharaoh  had  about  the  seven  fat  and  seven  lean \nkine,  and  many  similar  dreams  mentioned  in \nHoly  Writ — and  also  how  the  truth  of  such \nvisions  is  to  be  discerned, — for  dreams  are  usu- \nally deceptive,  though  undoubtedly  they  some- \ntimes announce  the  truth, — all  this  thou  mayest \nlearn  from  what  St.  Augustin  writes  about  his \nholy  mother.  God,  she  told  him,  had  given  her \nthis  gift :  that  when  He  showed  her  any  thing \nin  sleep  or  half-sleep,  she  received  at  the  same \ntime  the  inward  power  of  discerning  whether  it \nwas  merely  a  common  dream,  which  she  should \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  301 \n\ndisregard,  or  an  imaginary  vision,  to  which  she \nshould  attend.  Those  persons  who  have  this \ngift  from  God  can  all  the  better  explain  to \nthemselves  how  this  is.  But  no  one  can  com- \nmunicate it  to  another  by  words.  Those  only \nunderstand  it  who  have  had  experience  of  it. \n\n\nChapter  LVI. \n\nOf  the  very  highest  flight  of  a  soul  experienced  in  the  ways \nof  God. \n\nThe  wise  daughter  said : — There  is  nothing \nwhich  I  would  more  gladly  learn  from  Scrip- \nture than  the  answer  to  this  deep  and  pregnant \nquestion,  where  and  how  a  well-exercised  per- \nson's understanding  may  arrive  at  its  highest \nend  and  aim  in  the  deepest  abyss  of  the  God- \nhead, in  such  a  manner  that  what  is  actually \nexperienced  will  harmonise  with  the  teaching  of \nHoly  Writ? \n\nThe  Servitor  drew  from  Scripture  an  answer \nconformable  to  right  reason,  and  its  purport  ac- \ncording to  its  hidden  meaning  was  as  follows. \nEvery  one  who  has  attained  to  the  true  nobility \nof  spirit  ponders  in  simplicity  and  inactivity \nthe   pregnant  word  which   the   Eternal    Son \n\n\n302  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENKY  SUSO. \n\nspoke  in  the  Gospel,  \"  Where  I  am,  there  also \nshall  My  servant  be\"  (John  xii.  26).  Now  he \nwho  has  not  shrunk  from  following  the  Son \nto  that  bitter  ivhere,  on  which  according  to  His \nmanhood  He  took  post  in  death  upon  the  cross, \nhas,  in  virtue  of  this  promise,  the  right  and  the \npossibility  of  enjoying,  after  a  blissful  and  in- \ntellectual manner,  in  time  and  in  eternity,  the \ndelightful  where  of  the  Son's  pure  Godhead,  so \nfar  as  this  is  possible  more  or  less.  But  where \nis  the  where  of  the  Son's  pure  Godhead  1  It  is \nin  the  form-pregnant  light  of  the  divine  Unity, \n— a  light  which  may  be  termed  in  its  unname- \nableness  a  nothingness;  in  its  inward  concen- \ntration, an  essential  stillness;  in  its  indwelling \noutflow,  a  triune  nature ;  in  its  peculiar  property, \na  self-comprehending  light;  in  its  uncreated \ncreativeness,  an  existence  which  makes  things \nto  be.  And  in  the  modeless  darkness  of  this \nlight  all  multiplicity  ceases,  and  the  spirit  loses \nitself  as  self,  and  comes  to  an  end  as  regards  its \nown  activity.  This  is  the  highest  aim  and  the \nendless  where,  in  which  the  spirituality  of  all \nspirits  finds  its  end.  Ever  to  lose  oneself  in \nthis  is  everlasting  bliss. \n\nThou  must  know,   moreover,   in   order  to \nunderstand  this  better,  that  in  the  form-pregnant \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  303 \n\nlight  of  the  Divine  Unity  there  is  an  indwelling \noutspringing  impulse  by  which  the  Persons  are \nponred  forth  out  of  the  almighty  and  eternal \nGodhead.  For  the  Trinity  of  the  Persons  is  in \nthe  Unity  of  the  nature,  and  the  Unity  of  the \nnature  is  in  the  Trinity  of  the  Persons.  The \nUnity  has  its  actuality  in  the  Trinity,  and  the \nTrinity  has  its  potentiality  in  the  Unity;  ac- \ncording to  what  St.  Augustin  says  in  his  book \nabout  the  Trinity  —  namely,  that  the  Trinity \nof  the  Persons  contains  in  itself  the  Unity  as \nTheir  nature  and  essence,  and  hence  it  is  that \neach  Person  is  God,  and  according  to  the  sim- \nplicity of  the  nature  so  also  is  the  Godhead. \nNow  the  Unity  shines  forth  in  the  Trinity  after \na  divided  fashion;  but  the  Trinity,  viewed  as \ntending  inwards  and  as  indwelling,  shines  forth \nin  the  Unity  after  a  simple  fashion,  just  as  the \nthree  Persons  contain  in  themselves  the  Unity \nafter  the  same  simple  fashion.  The  Father  is \nthe  fountain-head  of  the  Son,  and  the  Son  is  an \noutflowing  of  the  Father,  gushing  forth  from \nHim  eternally  as  regards  the  Personality,  and \ndwelling  in  Him  as  regards  the  being  or  essence. \nThe  Father  and  the  Son  pour  forth  Their \nSpirit;  and  the  Unity,  which  is  the  being  of \nthe  primal  fountain-head,  is  the  being  of  all  the \n\n\n304  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nthree  Persons.  But  as  to  how  the  Trinity  is \none,  and  the  Trinity  in  the  Unity  of  the  nature \nis  one,  while  nevertheless  the  Trinity  comes \nforth  from  the  Unity,  this  cannot  be  expressed \nin  words,  owing  to  the  simplicity  of  that  deep \nabyss.  Hither  it  is,  into  this  intellectual  where, \nthat  the  spirit,  spiritualising  itself,  soars  up,  now \nflying  on  the  summitless  heights,  now  swimming \nin  the  bottomless  depths  of  the  sublime  marvels \nof  the  Godhead.  Nevertheless,  the  spirit  re- \ntains there  its  own  nature  as  a  spirit,  while  it \nenjoys  the  co-eternal,  co-omnipotent,  indwelling \nand  outflowing  Persons,  and  high  above  the \nclouds  and  bustle  of  things  below  contemplates \nwith  fixed  gaze  the  Divine  marvellousness.  For \nwhat  greater  marvel  can  there  be  than  the  pure \nUnity,  into  which  the  Trinity  of  the  Persons \nmerges  itself  in  simplicity,  and  in  which  all \nthe  multiplicity  of  sensible  objects  ceases.  And \nthis  is  to  be  understood  in  the  sense  that  the \noutflowing  of  the  Persons  poured  forth  is  al- \nways tending  back  again  into  the  Unity  of \nthe  self-same  essence,  and  that  all  creatures  in \nregard  to  their  indwelling  outflow  (i.  e,  their \nideal  procession)  are  from  eternity  in  this  one \nessence,  and  have  in  it  an  existence  identical \nwith  God's  life,  God's  knowledge,  and  God's \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  305 \n\nessence,  according  to  the  words  in  the  beginning \nof  St.  John's  Gospel,  \"  That  which  was  made, \nwas  in  Him  life  from  everlasting.\"*  This  pure \nUnity  is  a  dark  stillness  and  an  inactive  in- \nactivity, which  no  one  can  understand,  save  he \nalone  whom  the  Unity  in  itself  illumines.  Out \nof  this  still  inactivity  there  shines  forth  freedom \nwithout  any  admixture  of  wickedness,  for  free- \ndom is  the  fruit  of  the  new  birth  of  self-anni- \nhilation; and  there  shines  forth  likewise  deep \nhidden  truth  without  speck  of  falsehood,  and \nthis  truth  is  born  of  the  unveiling  of  the  veiled \nDivine  purity ;  for  now  at  length,  after  the  reve- \nlation of  these  things,  the  spirit  is  unclothed  of \nthat  dusky  light  which  has  hitherto  followed  it, \nand  in  which  it  has  till  now  viewed  objects  in \na  human  and  earthly  way.  And  it  finds  that \nit  has  now  become,  strictly  speaking,  another, \nand  something  quite  different,  from  what  it  till \nthen  understood  itself  to  be  according  to  its \nprevious  light;  as  St.  Paul  has  said,  \"I  live, \nbut  not  I\"  (Gal.  ii.  20) ;  and  in  this  manner  it \nis  unclothed  and  simplified  in  the  modeless  sim- \n\n*  Quod  factum,  est,  in  ipso  vita  erat  (Joan.  i.  3,  4).  Ac- \ncording to  this  deeply-suggestive  reading,  the  clause  qvod \nfactum  est  is  referred  to  the  words  that  follow  instead  of \nto  those  which  precede.  Many  of  the  Fathers  read  the \npassage  thus. \n\nX \n\n\n306  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nplicity  of  the  Divine  essence,  which  makes  its \nlight  to  shine  into  all  things  in  simplicity  and \nstillness.  In  this  simple  and  modeless  contem- \nplation the  spirit  takes  no  note  of  the  permanent \ndistinction  of  the  Persons,  viewed  as  separate. \nFor,  as  Christian  doctrine  teaches,  it  is  not  the \nPerson  of  the  Father,  taken  by  itself,  whicli \nproduces  bliss,  nor  the  Person  of  the  Son,  taken \nby  itself,  nor  the  Person  of  the  Holy  Ghost, \ntaken  by  itself;  but  it  is  the  three  Persons,  in- \ndwelling in  the  Unity  of  the  essence,  that  is \neternal  bliss.  And  this  is  the  being  itself  of \nthe  Persons  by  nature,  and  it  is  that  which \ngives  being  to  creatures  by  grace,  and  it  con- \ntains in  itself  the  form  and  idea  of  all  things \nin  simplicity  and  essentially.  Now,  just  as  this \nform-pregnant  light  subsists  as  being,  even  so \nall  things  subsist  in  it  according  to  their  essen- \ntial being,  and  not  according  to  their  accidental \ncharacter ;  and  since,  moreover,  it  pours  itself \nas  light  into  all  things,  therefore  its  property  is \nto  subsist  as  light.  And  hence  it  is  that  all \nthings  shine  forth  in  this  absolute  being  in  inte- \nrior stillness,  without  detriment  to  its  simplicity. \nThis  intellectual  where,  in  which,  as  has \nbeen  just  set  forth,  the  tried  servant  of  God \nshould  dwell  with  the  eternal  Son,  may  be  re- \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  307 \n\ngarded  as  the  essentially  existing  unnameable \nNothingness.  And  here  it  is  that  the  spirit \narrives  at  the  naught  of  the  Unity;  and  this \nUnity  is  termed  naught  because  the  spirit  can- \nnot discover  any  mode  of  being  under  which  to \nframe  a  conception  of  what  it  is.  Nevertheless \nthe  spirit  clearly  feels  that  it  is  contained  by \nanother,  quite  different  from  what  it  is  itself; \nfor  which  reason  that  which  contains  it  deserves \nmore  properly  the  name  of  something  than \nnaught,  though  it  seems  to  the  spirit  naught \nbecause  it  cannot  find  any  mode  of  conceiving \nwhat  it  is.  Now  when  the  spirit,  by  the  loss \nof  its  self-consciousness,  has  in  very  truth  esta- \nblished its  abode  in  this  glorious  and  dazzling \nobscurity,  it  is  set  free  from  every  obstacle  to \nunion  and  from  all  its  individual  properties, \nas  St.  Bernard  says;  and  this  takes  place  less \nor  more  according  as  the  spirit  remains  in  the \nbody  or  goes  out  of  it  when  it  passes  away  out \nof  itself  into  God.  And  this  loss  of  the  spirit's \nself  is  after  that  Divine  manner  in  which  all \nthings,  so  to  speak,  have  come  to  be  for  it,  as \nthe  Scripture  says  (1  Cor.  xv.  28). \n\nIn  this  merging  of  itself  in  God  the  spirit \npasses  away,  and  yet  not  wholly;  for  it  receives \nindeed  some  attributes  of  the  Godhead,  but  it \n\n\n308  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ndoes  not  become  God  by  nature.  What  befalls  it \nis  all  of  grace,  for  it  is  still  a  something  which \nhas  been  created  out  of  nothing,  and  continues \nto  be  this  everlastingly.  Thus  much  then  we \nmay  say :  When  the  spirit  has  passed  away  out \nof  itself  and  has  been  taken  up  into  God,  it  is \nrid  of  that  wondering  doubt  which  it  felt  while \nlosing  itself,  and  it  ceases  to  exist  in  regard  to \nthe  sense,  so  far  as  its  own  knowledge  of  itself \nis  concerned.  For,  to  use  ordinary  language, \nthe  spirit  is  drawn  upwards  by  the  might  of  the \nall-luminous  Divine  essence  above  its  natural \ncapacity  into  the  purity  of  the  Divine  naught, \nin  which  it  is  unclothed  of  all  created  modes, \nthough  without  ceasing  to  retain  its  own  proper \nmode  of  existence  as  a  creature.  This  modeless \nmode  is  the  being  of  the  Persons,  which  they \ncontain  within  Them  as  their  nature  in  absolute \nsimplicity  and  perfection.  And  it  is  by  gazing \nupon  this  that  the  spirit  is  divested  of  itself,  as \nhas  been  said ;  and  this  takes  place  in  the  naught \nof  the  Unity,  when  the  spirit  ceases  to  be  conscious \nof  its  own  proper  name  and  existence,  in  the \nperfect  knowledge  of  this  naught  to  which  it  has \nattained;  for  in  it  the  spirit  loses  itself  in  a  forget- \nfulness  of  self  and  all  things ;  and  this  happens \nto  it  the  moment  it  turns  away  from  itself  and \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  309 \n\nall  created  things  to  the  purity  of  the  uncreated \nnaught.  On  this  wild  mountain  range  of  the \nDivine  wJiere,  there  is  an  abyss,  perceptible  to  all \npure  spirits,  disporting  itself,  so  to  speak,  before \nthem,  and  opening  itself  out  to  their  gaze, — here \nit  is  they  enter  into  the  hidden  depths  of  that \nwhich  is  unnameable  and  into  that  wild  estrange- \nment ;  and  this  is  the  fathomless  abyss  of  all \ncreatures,  which  naught  but  itself  can  fathom, \nand  which  lies  hid  from  all  that  is  not  God,  save \nonly  from  those  to  whom  God  pleases  to  reveal \nit.  And  these  persons  must  seek  it  in  detach- \nment, and  in  a  certain  sense  they  must  behold \nit  with  God  Himself;  according  to  the  words  of \nScripture,  \"We  shall  know  then,  even  as  we \nare  known\"  (1  Cor.  xiii.  12 ;  1  John  iii.  2). \n\nThe  spirit  has  not  this  knowledge  from  its \nown  self,  for  the  Unity  in  the  Trinity  draws  it \nup  into  Itself — that  is  to  say,  into  the  spirit's \ntrue  supernatural  dwelling-place,  in  which  it \ndwells  above  itself  in  that  which  has  drawn  it \nup  thither.  Here  the  spirit  dies,  and  yet  is  all \nalive  in  the  marvels  of  the  Godhead.  The \ndying  of  the  spirit  consists  in  this :  that  when \nit  has  passed  away  into  God  it  no  longer  takes \nnote  of  any  distinction  between  individual  ex- \nistences ;  nevertheless,  as  regards  the  outpour- \n\n\n310  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\ning  of  the  Persons  and  of  creatures,  it  holds \nfirmly  the  distinction  between  the  three  Per- \nsons, and  also  the  separate  existence  of  every \ncreature,  as  is  explained  in  the  Servitor's  short \ntreatise  concerning  Truth.  Observe,  moreover, \nthat  when  the  spirit  has  passed  out  of  itself  in \nthe  way  described  above,  there  shines  forth  out \nof  the  Unity  a  simple  light,  and  this  modeless \nlight  streams  out  from  the  three  Persons  into  the \npurity  of  the  spirit.  When  this  light  falls  upon \nthe  spirit,  it  sinks  down  out  of  itself  and  all  that \nbelongs  to  self,  the  activity  of  all  its  powers \ncomes  to  an  end,  and  it  is  divested  of  its  opera- \ntions and  its  self-existence.  This  arises  from \nthe  entering  of  the  spirit  into  God,  when  it  has \npassed  away  out  of  itself  as  regards  the  sense, \nand  is  lost  in  the  stillness  of  the  glorious  dazzling \nobscurity  and  of  the  naked  simple  Unity.  It  is \nin  this  modeless  where  that  the  highest  bliss  is \nto  be  found. \n\nThe  maiden  exclaimed  i — Oh,  wonderful ! \nBut  how  is  one  to  enter  into  it?  He  answered : \n— I  leave  the  answer  of  this  question  to  that \nbright  light  St.  Denys,  who  speaks  thus  to  his \ndisciple :  If  thou  wouldst  enter  into  the  hidden \nmysteriousness,  mount  boldly  upwards ;  and \ndisregarding  thy  outer  and  inner  senses,  and \n\n\nTHE  SOUL'S  HIGHEST  FLIGHT.  311 \n\nthe  workings  of  thy  reason  in  itself,  and  all \nthings  visible  and  invisible,  and  all  that  is  and \nis  not,  mount  upwards  to  the  simple  Unity. \nInto  this  thou  must  press  forward  without \nknowing  it,  even  into  that  silence  which  is \nabove  all  being  and  above  all  science,  with  the \npurity  and  simplicity  of  a  mind  utterly  abstracted \nfrom  every  creature,  right  into  the  very  splen- \ndours of  the  Divine  darkness.  Here  thou  must \nlet  go  every  hold,  and  part  with  every  thing \ncreated;  for  in  the  superessential  Trinity  of \nthe  God-transcending  Godhead,  on  that  mys- \nterious, incomprehensible,  all-dazzling  pinnacle \nof  pinnacles,  marvellous  things  are  heard  from \nout  the  low  whispering  silence,  and  marvellous \nthings  are  felt,  new  and  yet  unchangeable,  amid \nthe  splendours  of  that  dark  obscurity,  which  is \nthe  fulness  of  light  and  glory  manifested,  where- \nin all  that  is  shines  forth,  and  which  fills  to \noverflowing  the  sightless  mind  of  the  beholder \nwith  its  incomprehensible,  invisible,  and  efful- \ngent luminousness. \n\n\n312  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nChapter  LVLT. \n\nThe  conclusion  of  the  contents  of  this  book  in  a  few  simple \nwords. \n\nThe  daughter  said: — Ah,  sir,  you  speak \nwith  so  much  Christian  learning,  both  from \nyour  own  experience  and  from  Holy  Writ, \nconcerning  the  mystery  of  the  pure  Godhead, \nand  the  flowing  forth  and  the  flowing  in  again \nof  the  spirit,  could  you  not  draw  out  for  me \nthis  mysterious  teaching,  as  you  understand \nit,  under  the  form  of  a  similitude,  that  I  may \nbe  the  better  able  to  comprehend  it?  And  I \nshould  also  be  very  glad  if  you  would  gather \ntogether  in  a  short  discourse,  and  illustrate  by \nfigures,  all  the  sublime  doctrines  which  you \nhave  handled  at  length,  that  they  may  be  more \nfirmly  fixed  in  my  weak  mind. \n\nHe  answered : — How  can  one  express  in \nfigures  what  has  no  figure,  and  set  forth  in \nwords  what  has  no  mode  of  being,  seeing  that \nit  is  above  the  ken  of  sense  and  human  reason  ? \nFor  every  thing  to  which  it  may  be  likened \nis  a  thousand  times  more  unlike  than  like  it. \nNevertheless,  in  order  to  expel  from  your  ima- \ngination figures  by  figures,  I  will  try,  so  far  as \n\n\nCONCLUSION.  313 \n\nis  possible,  to  image  forth  for  you  in  similitudes \nthese  form-transcending  thoughts,  as  in  truth \nthey  may  be  termed,  and  thus  conclude  a  long \ndiscourse  in  a  few  words. \n\nHearken  then.  It  is  said  by  a  learned  doc- \ntor that  God,  in  regard  to  His  Godhead,  is  like \na  very  wide  ring,  whose  centre  is  every  where, \nand  circumference  nowhere.  Now  picture  to \nyour  imagination  what  follows.  If  a  stone  is \nflung  with  violence  into  the  centre  of  a  sheet \nof  still  water,  a  ring  is  formed  in  the  water,  and \nthis  ring  by  its  own  might  makes  a  second  ring, \nand  the  second  makes  a  third;  and  in  proportion \nto  the  force  of  the  first  fling  will  be  the  breadth \nand  width  of  the  circles ;  and  the  force  of  the \nfling  might  be  even  great  enough  to  pass  beyond \nthe  limit  of  the  water.  Imagine  now  that  the \nfirst  ring  represents  the  infinite  might  of  the \nDivine  nature  in  the  Father.  This  produces  a \nsecond  ring  like  it,  according  to  the  Person,  and \nthis  ring  is  the  Son.  And  the  two  produce  the \nthird,  which  is  the  Spirit  of  both,  co-eternal  and \nco-omnipotent  with  them.  Thus  the  three  cir- \ncles signify  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost.  In \nthis  deep  abyss,  the  Divine  nature  in  the  Father \nis  everlastingly  speaking  forth  and  begetting  the \nWord  as  to  the  personality,  and  dwelling  in  Him \n\n\n314  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nas  to  the  essence — that  self-same  Word,  I  mean, \nwho  has  taken  upon  Him  human  nature.  If  any \none  wishes  to  picture  this  to  his  imagination,  let \nhim  figure  to  himself  a  man,  from  the  depths  of \nwhose  heart  a  form  like  the  man's  own  springs \nforth,  yet  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  always  gazing \nfixedly  upon  and  returning  back  again  into  him \nout  of  whom  he  sprang.  This  spiritual  super- \nessential  begetting  of  the  Divine  Word  is  the \nfull  and  entire  cause  of  the  bringing  forth  of  all \ncreatures  and  spirits  into  their  natural  state  of \nexistence.  The  supreme  superessential  Spirit \nhas  ennobled  man,  by  illuminating  him  with \na  ray  from  His  eternal  Godhead;  and  this  is \nGod's  image  in  the  rational  soul,  which  also  is \neverlasting.  Hence  from  out  the  great  ring, \nwhich  represents  the  eternal  Godhead,  there  flow \nforth,  to  carry  on  the  metaphor,  little  rings,  which \nmay  be  taken  to  signify  the  high  nobility  of \nrational  creatures. \n\nNow  there  are  some  persons  who,  to  their \nown  hurt,  turn  away  from  this  nobility  of  their \nreason,  and,  plastering  over  the  radiant  image \nof  God  within  them,  turn  themselves  to  the \nbodily  pleasures  of  this  world ;  and  when  they \nfancy  that  they  possess  the  joy  which  they  are \npursuing,  stern  death  comes  and  puts  an  end  to \n\n\nCONCLUSION.  315 \n\nthem.  But  a  man  who  acts  conformably  to \nreason  turns  away  from  the  bright  spark  of  his \nsoul  to  that  which  is  eternal,  and  out  of  which \nthe  spark  came  forth;  and  he  gives  all  creatures \ntheir  dismissal,  and  cleaves  to  the  eternal  Truth \nalone. \n\nAttend,  likewise,  to  the  right  and  orderly \nway  in  which  the  flowing  back  again  of  the \nspirit  into  God  should  take  place,  as  set  forth \nin  the  following  instruction : — The  first  thing \nwhich  a  man  should  do  is  to  turn  away  entirely \nand  with  all  his  might  from  the  pleasures  of  the \nworld,  and  from  sinful  practices,  to  God,  with \npersevering  prayer,  seclusion,  and  virtuous  dis- \ncreet exercises,  in  order  thus  to  bring  his  body \ninto  subjection  to  the  spirit.  The  second  thing \nis  to  offer  himself  willingly  and  patiently  to  bear \nthe  countless  multitude  of  contradictions  which \nmay  come  upon  him  from  God  or  creatures. \nThe  third  thing  is  to  take  the  sufferings  of \nChrist  crucified  as  the  model  on  which  to  form \nhimself,  and  to  copy  Him  in  His  sweet  teach- \ning, gentle  walk,  and  pure  life,  which  He  pro- \nposed to  us  as  our  example,  and  in  this  manner \nto  press  onwards  through  Him.  The  fourth  thing \nto  be  done  is  to  divest  himself  of  exterior  occu- \npations, and  to  establish  himself  in  a  stillness \n\n\n316  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nand  repose  of  soul  by  an  energetic  detachment \nfrom  all  things,  as  if  he  were  dead  to  himself, \nand  could  not  guide  himself,  and  had  no  other \nthought  but  for  the  honour  and  glory  of  Christ \nand  His  Heavenly  Father.  To  this  he  should \nadd  an  humble  bearing  towards  all  men,  whether \nfriends  or  foes.  After  a  man  has  passed  through \nthese  exercises,  the  next  point  at  which  he  ar- \nrives is,  that  his  outward  senses,  which  until \nthen  were  much  too  actively  employed  on  ex- \nterior objects,  cease  from  action ;  and  his  spirit's \nhighest  powers,  dying  to  their  natural  opera- \ntion, acquire  a  supernatural  sensitiveness. \n\nHere  it  is  that  the  spirit,  having  parted  with \nevery  jk^tm  ofrft&fcire  which  had  clung  to  it, \npresses  ft^ierun^krotkjh  the  ring,  which  signi- \nfies line  eteuaft  Godhelraj^nd  arrives  at  spiritual \nperfection^  ^nW  suWime$fc health  of  the  spirit \nin  iK^iwn  p^fj&ffiont.  doafiKts  in  this:  that \nbein^Ii^  freetkfroia£ihe  weiffftfc  of  sin,  it  soars \nupwarok  in.  the  naigMrra  GoTL  into  its  divinely \nilluminatiji  reason, ^hesgjit  enjfys  a  perpetual \ninflux  of  nokvenly  consol^fronsi  It  can  now \nbehold  the  secrefc^elations  o^ftings,  and  inter- \npret them  according  ^Treason  with  true  dis- \ncrimination, and  it  is  duly  set  free  from  bondage \nby  the  Son  in  the  Son.     It  still,  however,  con- \n\n\nCONCLUSION.  317 \n\ntinues  to  view  things  in  their  outflow  from  God, \nand  to  contemplate  them  as  existing  each  one  in \nits  own  proper  nature.  This  may  be  called  the \ntransport  of  the  spirit,  for  it  is  now  lifted  up \nabove  time  and  place,  and  has  passed  away  by \nintense  loving  contemplation  into  God.  Now, \nhe  who  can  clear  a  way  for  himself  still  further, \nand  to  whom  God  is  pleased  to  give  great  and \nspecial  help  by  drawing  him  away  mightily  from \ncreatures,  as  He  did  to  St.  Paul,  and  may  pos- \nsibly still  do  to  others,  according  to  what  St. \nBernard  says — this  man  finds  his  created  spirit \nseized  upon  by  the  superessential  Spirit,  and \ndrawn  into  that  which  it  never  could  have  at- \ntained to  in  its  own  strength.  This  entry  of  the \nspirit  into  God  strips  it  of  all  images,  forms,  and \nmultiplicity,  and  it  loses  consciousness  of  itself \nand  all  things,  and  becomes  merged  with,  the \nthree  Persons  in 'the-'  abyss  of ;  their  indwelling \nsimplicity,  and  enjoys  there  its  highest  and \ntruest  bliss.  Here  all*1  striving  and  seeking \ncease,  for  the  beginning  arid  the  end  have  be- \ncome one,  and  the  spirit,  being  divested  of  itself, \nhas  become  one  with  them,  as  is  explained  else- \nwhere with  the  help  of  figures.*  But  as  to  how \na  man  can  pass  away  in  this  life,  either  perma- \n*  In  the  Treatise  on  Truth. \n\n\n318  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\nnently  or  transiently,  and  how,  while  he  is  still \nin  time,  he  can  be  caught  up  above  time,  more \nor  less,  and  be  drawn  out  of  himself  and  trans- \nported into  the  formless  Unity — all  this  I  have \nalready  set  forth  with  the  necessary  distinctions. \nAnd  now,  daughter,  remember  that  all  these \nfigures  and  images,  with  their  interpretations, \nare  as  remote  from  and  unlike  the  formless \nTruth  as  a  black  Moor  is  unlike  the  beautiful \nsun ;  and  this  comes  from  the  formless  and  in- \ncomprehensible simplicity  of  the  Truth. \n\nThe  maiden  looked  upwards,  and  said: — \nPraised  be  the  eternal  Truth  for  the  beautiful \ninstruction  which  I  have  received  from  your \nwise  words  concerning  the  first  entry  of  a  be- \nginner into  the  interior  life,  the  hindrances \nwhich  he  will  meet  with  as  he  advances,  the \nthings  which  he  will  have  to  avoid,  his  suffer- \nings and  his  exercises,  as  well  as  the  hidden \nmystery  of  the  pure  and  absolute  Truth,  accord- \ning to  the  good  distinctions  which  you  have \nlaid  down.     Glory  be  to  God  eternally  for  this. \n\nNow,  when  this  holy  maiden  had  been  thus \nnobly  guided  by  her  spiritual  father,  with  the \nhelp  of  good  distinctions  and  in  accordance  with \nthe  whole  Christian  truth,  along  all  the  ways \nwhich  end  in  supreme  bliss,  and  when  she  had \n\n\nCONCLUSION.  319 \n\nwell  mastered  it,  as  far  as  is  possible  in  this  life, \nhe  wrote  to  her  in  his  last  letter  thus : — Come \nnow,  daughter;  give  creatures  their  dismissal, \nand  leave  off  thy  questionings.  Give  ear,  and \nlisten  for  thyself  to  what  God  will  say  within \nthee.  Thou  mayest  well  rejoice  that  thou  hast \nobtained  that  which  to  many  a  one  is  wanting. \nPainfully  as  thou  hast  earned  it,  all  this  is  now \npast  and  over.  Henceforth  there  is  nothing \nmore  for  thee  to  do  except  to  possess  Divine \npeace  in  still  repose,  and  joyfully  to  await  the \nmoment  when  thou  shalt  pass  away  from  this \nlife  into  the  fulness  of  everlasting  bliss. \n\nIt  came  to  pass  soon  afterwards  that  the  holy \nmaiden  died;  and  her  end  was  a  blessed  one, \neven  as  her  life  had  been.*  After  her  death  she \nappeared  in  a  vision  to  her  spiritual  father  clad \nin  snow-white  garments,  shining  with  a  dazzling \nbrightness,  and  full  of  heavenly  joy.  She  drew \nnigh  to  him,  and  showed  him  in  what  noble \nfashion  she  had  passed  away  into  the  pure  God- \nhead. He  saw  and  heard  this  with  delight,  and \nthe  vision  filled  his  soul  with  heavenly  consola- \ntion. When  he  came  to  himself  again,  he \nsighed  deeply,  and  thought  within  himself: — \n\n*  Elizabeth  Stiiglin  died  in  the  convent  of  Thoss,  near \nWinterthur,  A.d.  1360,  five  years  before  her  spiritual  father. \n\n\n320  LIFE  OF  BLESSED  HENRY  SUSO. \n\n\nAh,  God!  how  blessed  is  the  man  who  strives, \nafter  Thee  alone !  He  may  well  be  content  t(l \nsuffer  whose  sufferings  Thou  rewardest  thus.V^ \nGod  help  us  to  rejoice  in  this  maiden  and  in \nall  His  dear  friends,  and  to  enjoy  His  Divine \ncountenance  eternally.     Amen. \n\n\nTHE  END. \n\n\nwanton: \n\nROBSON  ASD  AD*,  UKK.VT  SOUTHERN  PBINTIUG  WORKS, \nI'ASCSAS  BO  AD,  K.W. \n\n\nB  765  .S74  A313  1865  SMC \n\nSeuse,  Heinrich, \n\n1295-1366. \nThe  1  i  f e  of  B  lessed \n\nHenry  Suso  / \nAXF-3903",
    "project_translation": false,
    "text_trust": "verbatim",
    "quote_safe": true,
    "license": null,
    "methodology_url": null
  }
}