sus Christ, and to give myself to Him as His spouse,
although unworthy.' I asked of Him, as the dowry of my spiritual
marriage, crosses, contempt, confusion, disgrace, and ignominy; and I
prayed Him to give me grace to entertain dispositions of littleness and
nothingness with regard to everything else." Though we cannot consider
such covenants in general as wise in themselves, nor this one in
particular as appropriate in its language, yet for a time it seemed to
give greater strength to her holy resolutions and increased stability to
her pious frame of mind. But about eighteen months afterwards she fell
into a state of depression, or absence of joy, which lasted nearly
six years.

[Footnote :1 _La Vie de Madame Guyon_, premiere partie, ch. xix., 10.]

Probably this state of "privation," as she terms it, was in great
measure the result of physical causes. She had for many years tried her
bodily strength to the utmost by her severe self-denying treatment of
herself. And now the death of her intimate friend, the above-mentioned
Genevieve Granger, no doubt exercised a lowering effect on her spirits.
It was a testing time for her faith, and it is a signal proof of the
depth and reality of her piety that through all this trying season she
held fast her trust in God, and kept on her way, though uncheered for a
time by the joyous emotions with which she had so long been favoured. It
was well that her mind, which had been overtaxed and strained by the
intensity of her religious fervour, and by its unbroken continuity of
introspection, should be brought into a more healthful state by this
bitter tonic of joylessness.

In 1676 her husband's health, never very good, completely broke down,
and after a long illness he died, leaving her, at the age of
twenty-eight, a widow, with three children. As the solemn hour of
parting drew near, she swept away all the wretched interference which
had helped to cloud the happiness of their married life, and, kneeling
by his bed, she begged him to forgive anything she had done amiss. The
better nature of the man now at length prevailed, and he said--what he
had never said before--"It is I who ask pardon of you. I did not deserve
you:" which was perfectly true. He left a large amount of property, but
his affairs were in a perplexing state of entanglement, and his young
widow, unused to business, had to do her best to make all straight. She
proved equal to the occasion, and soon, with her quick per