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1The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fénelon: The Mystic, by James Mudge
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10Title: Fénelon: The Mystic
11
12Author: James Mudge
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14Release Date: April 3, 2018 [EBook #56906]
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16Language: English
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20*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FÉNELON: THE MYSTIC ***
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38                          _Men of the Kingdom_
39
40
41
42
43                          Fénelon: The Mystic
44
45
46                                  _By_
47                              James Mudge,
48     Author of “The Saintly Calling,” “The Best of Browning,” etc.
49
50                    CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM
51                       NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS
52
53                           copyright 1906, by
54                          Jennings and Graham
55
56
57                           _To My Dear Wife._
58                       A wise mother of children,
59                    A faithful missionary in India,
60                 An efficient worker in many Churches.
61
62
63
64
65                          A WORD TO THE READER
66
67
68There have been many lives of Fénelon. Four were brought out in the
69eighteenth century, and two quite extensive ones were issued as recently
70as 1901. In a few cases they have been written in a spirit of cold,
71supercilious disparagement and cynical comment by people who evidently
72had no experience which would qualify them to understand the character
73they rashly attempted to portray. But the endeavor to pull Fénelon down
74from the pedestal on which he has so long stood can not succeed. So long
75as his own writings remain to bear testimony to the high qualities of
76his mind and soul, his fame is secure. It is the chief regret of the
77present writer that, owing to the restricted size of the book, he has
78not been able to give more of Fénelon’s own words. The reader is
79recommended to procure the “Spiritual Letters” of Fénelon, published in
80two volumes by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York.[1]
81
82It is not claimed that Fénelon was wholly without faults, or was in all
83respects ahead of his times. How could that be expected? He took, in the
84main, of course, the Roman Catholic view in the questions that arose
85regarding heresy and the general affairs of the Church. It is not
86necessary to defend him for this. We are concerned, in studying such
87persons, not so much with their dogmatic opinions and beliefs, the
88result of their environment, as with the spirit of their lives, their
89attainments in holiness, and the light which they can shed on the best
90means of growth in grace. It is believed that the present volume will be
91found helpful to this end. The type of piety exemplified by Fénelon,
92Fletcher, Faber, and others of this sort, does not appeal with equal
93force to all, owing to difference of mental and physical constitution.
94But all, whatever their temperament, can get only good by contemplating
95such an example as is presented in these pages. They can not feel the
96quick throbs of his deeply loving heart, and note the sincerity of
97purpose with which he served his dear Redeemer, without being stimulated
98in their zeal, and helped to walk, in their own way, more worthily of
99the vocation with which they themselves are called. That this may indeed
100be the outcome for every reader of the following chapters, is the
101earnest prayer of the author.
102
103                                                            JAMES MUDGE.
104
105Jamaica Plain, Mass.
106
107
108
109
110                                CONTENTS
111
112
113Chapter                                                             Page
114
115I. From Youth to Manhood,                                              9
116
117II. The Setting of the Picture,                                       45
118
119III. Preceptor to the Prince,                                         67
120
121IV. Mysticism and Quietism,                                           94
122
123V. The Great Conflict,                                               120
124
125VI. The Good Archbishop,                                             159
126
127VII. The Spiritual Letters,                                          193
128
129
130
131
132                          Fénelon: The Mystic
133
134
135
136
137                               CHAPTER I.
138                         FROM YOUTH TO MANHOOD.
139
140
141Christian perfection, or the highest possibilities of Christian grace
142and growth, is a theme of intense interest to every true lover of the
143Lord. There are many ways of promoting it, widely differing in their
144merits and their helpfulness. Without disparaging other methods, it may
145be safely said that nothing can be better than example. Christianity
146centers around a person; and personal experience perennially appeals.
147Better than abstract discussion is concrete practice. More profitable
148than speculation and controversy is an actual life on highest levels.
149There is also a large advantage in beholding such a life in another age
150and land and Church, thus noting how God can magnify and fulfill Himself
151in very diverse circumstances, and amid intellectual influences that to
152us are quite obnoxious.
153
154We invite, therefore, the attention of the thoughtful reader to a man
155who presents one of the most perfect types of human purity that the
156world has ever seen; one who for two hundred years has stood among the
157choicest few of those universally esteemed to be authorities in
158spiritual things; one endowed with a luster which the lapse of time can
159not tarnish,—a luster far brighter than can be bestowed by mere worldly
160honors or temporal prosperity, however high. He not only had a heart
161filled with the love of God and glowing with pure devotion, but also a
162mind capable of the closest analysis and the keenest discrimination. He
163was not only a saint, but also a scholar and a genius, an original
164thinker as well as a pursuer of holiness. Such combinations are very
165rare. His thirst for perfection has probably never been surpassed.
166Seldom, if ever, has such a remarkable combination of high qualities
167tabernacled in the flesh. He had both modesty and majesty, both
168simplicity and sublimity, unconquerable firmness in duty, unsurpassed
169meekness in society; he was equally eminent for piety and politeness,
170for morals and manners; he was sympathetic and chivalrous, severe to
171himself, indulgent to others. In the midst of a voluptuous court he
172practiced the virtues of an anchorite; with the revenues of a prince at
173command he hardly allowed himself ordinary comforts. His abilities
174awaken our admiration, his afflictions excite our compassion. Born among
175the nobility of earth, he resisted the blandishments of earthly pomp,
176and became crowned with the far higher nobility of heaven. He was truly
177humble and truly heroic; good as well as great; skillful in teaching,
178wise in counsel, master of an elegant style both in composition and
179discourse; faithful to his friends and kind to his foes; devoted to his
180native land, generous to his family, a man of peace yet ready to fight
181for the faith, true to his convictions, tolerant toward those of other
182beliefs, tenderly affectionate, vigorously diligent; the glory of his
183country, the joy of mankind, the beloved of the Lord. He had an intense
184nature, and was, as has been said, “One whose religion must be more
185loving than love, his daily life more kind than kindness, his words
186truer than truth itself.” Lamartine calls him “beautiful as a Raphael’s
187St. John leaning on the bosom of Christ.” He had the imagination of a
188woman for dreaming of heaven, and the soul of a man for subduing the
189earth. The especially feminine qualities were prominent in him, yet he
190strikes no one as effeminate, and when he felt himself set for the
191defense of the truth he showed a power that greatly surprised his
192enemies. “His soul was like a star and dwelt apart,” “alone with the
193Alone.” And yet he was so deeply interested in the welfare of France and
194his fellow-men that he has been called a politician; statesman would be
195the word more befitting the facts, for his ideas as to the measures and
196policies necessary to make the land prosperous were in the main very
197wise, and he had no personal ends to serve. In whatever capacity we
198consider him—poet, orator, moralist, metaphysician, politician,
199instructor, bishop, friend, persecuted Christian—he excites our keenest
200interest, our warmest admiration. He greatly desired to please every
201one, and succeeded so far as circumstances allowed; but the desire was
202held in strictest control by a strong sense of duty, which compelled him
203at times to do and say things most unacceptable to many. He was no
204courtier, no flatterer, he could not make his own interests the first
205consideration. He was a prophet in Gomorrah, charged with a message
206which pressed upon him for utterance, and for the delivery of which the
207time was short. At the court of Louis XIV—a spot above all others on the
208face of the earth, perhaps, in that century, disgraced by selfishness,
209hypocrisy, and intrigue—he bears not a little resemblance to a seraph
210sent on a divine mission to the shades of the lost. There is endless
211fascination in his story. He was not without faults, but his faults were
212those of his age; his virtues were his own. He turned a haughty,
213irritable, overbearing young prince, an incipient Cæsar Borgia, into the
214mildest, most docile, obedient of men. He possessed his soul in peace
215amid provocations that would have been far too much for most of us.
216Neither public disgrace nor personal bereavement had power to embitter
217him. He listened to the voice of God within him, and marched straight
218on, breast forward. In the language of Herder, “His Church indeed
219canonized him not, but humanity has.” He is a saint in the eyes of
220multitudes not attracted by official sanctity; an apostle of liberty
221that dared withstand the Grand Monarque; a martyr spending half a life
222in exile, through the machinations of a court faction which dreaded his
223incorruptible goodness. “Being dead, he yet speaketh.” “One of the
224noblest men who ever lived,” says Dr. John Henry Kurtz, the
225distinguished Church historian. Joseph de Maistre exclaims: “Do we wish
226to paint ideal greatness? Let us try to imagine something that surpasses
227Fénelon—we shall not succeed.” Let us, then, putting aside imagination,
228endeavor to rescue from the musty record of the misty past, a lifelike
229image of this many-sided, multiple, versatile personality.
230
231
232François de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon was born August 6, 1651, at the
233castle, or chateau, of Fénelon, about three miles from the town of
234Sarlat, in the department of Southern France, formerly called Perigord,
235now Dordogne, north of the river Garonne. The De Salignacs were of an
236ancient and distinguished family, counting in their long pedigree many
237of the best names of France—bishops, governors, generals, and
238ambassadors. But it is safe to say that they have derived more luster
239from the single name of the Archbishop of Cambrai than from all the rest
240who through several centuries filled lofty stations in camp and court
241and Church.
242
243Very little is known about his parents or his early life. Pons de
244Salignac, Count of La Mothe Fénelon, father of Francis, was twice
245married, having fourteen children by his first wife and three by his
246second. The eldest of the three was Francis. His mother, Mademoiselle
247Louise de la Cropte de Saint-Arbre, sister of a celebrated lieutenant
248who served under Marshal Turenne, is said to have been unusually pious,
249which we can well believe, and to have perpetuated some of her other
250traits in her famous son. From his father’s side he doubtless inherited
251his diplomatic temperament and a goodly degree of worldly wisdom. His
252peculiar situation in the household could hardly fail to have had
253something to do with his character. The numerous grown-up sons and
254daughters of his father’s first marriage took umbrage at the second;
255hence the precocious and sensitive child had abundant occasion to
256practice all possible arts of ingratiation to obtain forgiveness for
257having intruded his existence upon them, and to make it pleasant for his
258mother. His constitution was delicate, and he had a sickly childhood;
259once at least in his early days his life was despaired of, and he only
260recovered to be for years the victim of sleeplessness and kindred
261ailments. He was the idol of his old father, who, recognizing his
262unusual talents, took special pains with his education. It was intrusted
263at first to a private preceptor, who seems to have been well fitted for
264his task, and gave to his pupil in a few years a better knowledge of
265Greek and Latin than is commonly obtained at so early an age, doubtless
266laying thus the foundation of his exquisitely finished style. At twelve
267he left the paternal roof for the neighboring University of Cahors (a
268town about sixty miles north of Toulouse, containing now an obelisk of
269Fénelon), where he pursued for some three years philosophical and
270philological studies and took his degrees in the arts.
271
272His father probably died about this time, as we hear nothing further of
273him, and his uncle, the Marquis Antoine de Fénelon, who had lost his own
274son, acted henceforth as the father of his nephew. It was a most happy
275circumstance, for the marquis was deeply religious and of an unsullied
276private life, as well as very independent in his character. The Grand
277Condé, greatest general of his time, described him as “equally at home
278in society, war, and the council chamber.” When M. de Harlai was
279nominated to the Archbishopric of Paris, the marquis remarked to him,
280“There is a wide difference, my Right Reverend Lord, between the day
281when the nomination for such an office brings to the party the
282compliments of the whole kingdom, and the day on which he appears before
283God to render Him an account of his administration;” a reflection which,
284although much needed, could not have been very agreeable to De Harlai,
285for he was a notorious evil liver, who introduced every species of
286corruption into the administration of his diocese, and scandalized all
287by the iniquities also of his private life. Another indication of the
288marquis’s truly noble quality is seen in the fact that when M. Olier,
289the celebrated founder of the Congregation of St. Sulpice, wished to
290form an association of gentlemen whose courage was past impeachment, to
291bind themselves with an oath neither to accept any challenge nor act the
292part of second in any duel—that the practice of dueling might thus be
293checked—he asked M. de Fénelon to take the post of president of the
294association, being convinced that there was no one whose reputation was
295more firmly established both in court and camp.
296
297Under the guidance, then, of this admirable relative, who was so
298exceptionally well fitted by character, position, and situation to give
299his nephew the best possible start in life, and who tenderly loved him,
300young Francis came to Paris in 1666, at the age of fifteen. It was not,
301of course, the Paris of the present day; but even then it was a great
302city, reaching back for its beginning to the Roman times, and recognized
303as the seat of government for at least a thousand years. Under Henry of
304Navarre (1589-1610) great improvements had been made, and by the
305accession of Louis XIV—who began to reign nominally in 1643, at the age
306of five, but really took charge of the kingdom in 1661—through the
307completion of several bridges, roads, and quays, and the erection of
308various public and private palaces, a new face had been put on the old
309city. It was already the focus of European civilization, learning, and
310eloquence, as well as the center of all that was most attractive and
311distinguished in France. The best institutions were there, the best
312opportunities for advancement, the highest privileges and advantages of
313every sort; so that to it naturally gravitated all who wished to make
314the most of themselves under the eye of that Grand Monarch whose favor
315was life. Francis, therefore, no doubt counted himself greatly blessed
316at this change, and entered upon his Parisian life—which was to last
317thirty-one years—with very high, ambitious hopes. His guardian sent him
318for two years to the Collége du Plessis, then under the rule of M.
319Gobinet, a first-rate principal. There he speedily distinguished himself
320as a scholar, and he also gave such tokens of possessing the gift of
321eloquence that before he was sixteen he was put forward to preach to an
322admiring audience. It is, perhaps, worth noting that Bossuet—who was so
323soon to be closely associated with Fénelon, at first in friendship, then
324in fierce hostility—also preached at the same age, with similar
325applause, before a brilliant assemblage in Paris.
326
327What was the next step? A noble under Louis XIV had two possible careers
328open to him, and only two; they were the army and the Church. It is not
329probable that the matter was long debated, if at all, in Francis’ case.
330Everything about him, his gifts of speech, his high scholarship, his
331deep piety, his rather delicate health, pointed to the clerical
332vocation, and there can be no question but this was with him a divine
333calling, to which doubtless his heart gave full assent. So he was
334placed, in 1688, at the seminary of St. Sulpice to be trained for the
335priesthood.
336
337Since he was to spend no less than ten happy years, in the formative
338period of seventeen to twenty-seven, in connection with this
339institution, it may be well that we say a few words about it and its
340director. It was the principal fruit of the great Catholic revival at
341the beginning of the century, the embodiment of all the force of that
342movement—a movement marked by very earnest piety and a somewhat unusual
343combination of emotionalism and asceticism. It was founded by a group of
344devoted men sprung from the upper-middle class; and chief among them was
345M. Olier, a man justly celebrated for his saintly life. He was appointed
346in 1642 to the parish of St. Sulpice when it was noted as the most
347depraved quarter of Paris. He labored unremittingly and very
348successfully to reform this unpromising flock, and the young priests who
349were associated with him in his task constituted the nucleus of the
350seminary and community of St. Sulpice. The necessary building to house
351the institution, to the establishment of which Monsieur Olier gave
352himself with highest enthusiasm, was completed in 1652—a square edifice
353capable of receiving one hundred inmates. This became the center of a
354most wholesome and inspiring activity.
355
356The founder had a very high ideal of sacerdotal character. He would not
357admit any who embraced the sacred calling from considerations of
358ambition or expediency, and those admitted were subjected to the
359sharpest kind of tests. Whatever their birth or condition they were
360required to perform the menial duties of the house, and to mingle on
361terms of absolute equality with their fellow-students. The complete
362immolation of self was set as the paramount aim before those who looked
363forward to holy orders. The will must be entirely surrendered. The good
364priest must become the model of all the virtues. All earthly interests
365and ties must be renounced. The closest union with the Divine was to be
366cultivated. A very literal interpretation of the teaching of the Master
367was followed. The pupils were urged to study the Gospels till they could
368bring the Divine life before them at any moment in a series of mental
369pictures which should help them in the decision of all perplexing
370questions of duty, and were exhorted to keep themselves in such a
371disposition that meditation on that model life would never seem strange
372or demand a violent mental revulsion whatever their outward
373circumstances might be. While the ceremonies of the Church were observed
374with minute exactness, and occasional austerities were practiced, and
375learning was not neglected, the main thought was that the perfection of
376personal character must be secured at all costs; the world was to be
377abandoned, the flesh crucified, the devil in all his forms resisted, and
378lessons of humility, obedience, and charity were to be most carefully
379learned. They were taught that in the silence which succeeds the
380struggle of self-abandonment they would find Christ coming to them—the
381Christ who had borne all and understood all, and whose presence was far
382more worth having than the prizes they had missed or put away.
383
384It can well be believed that this wholly consecrated man, the first
385superior of St. Sulpice, won to himself so large a share of personal
386affection and loyalty from his students that when he was removed from
387its care many feared its collapse. But this was not to be. A suitable
388successor was found in M. Louis Tronson, a man every way as capable as
389the first founder—indeed more learned in theology—and fully disposed to
390continue the traditions of the institution as already laid down; a man
391who coveted no external recognition, joined in no race for preferment,
392but gave himself with singleness of eye to the great work intrusted to
393him by the Master. It was to his care that Francis Fénelon was
394committed, and he speedily won the enthusiastic affection of the young
395man. In a few years Fénelon writes concerning his teacher to Pope
396Clement XI as follows: “Never have I seen his equal for piety and
397prudence, for love of justice and insight into character. I glory in the
398thought that I was brought up under his wing.” Fénelon was evidently one
399of the Abbé Tronson’s favorites, for he was a favorite with everybody,
400and all could see in the brilliant youth a promise that would do honor
401to those who had a share in his development. A high degree of confidence
402was given and received on both sides. Francis wrote to his uncle, in a
403burst of gratitude, one day: “I earnestly desire to be able to tell you
404some part of all that passes between M. Tronson and me; but indeed,
405Monsieur, I know not how to do so. I find I can be much more explicit
406with him than with you, nor would it be easy to describe the degree of
407union we have reached. If you could hear our conversation you would not
408know your pupil, and you would see that God has very marvelously helped
409on the work which you begun. My health does not improve, which would be
410a great trial to me if I were not learning how to comfort myself.” This
411was very beautiful, very delightful, and though such complete dominance
412of one personality by another is not devoid of danger, the results in
413this case appear to have justified the experiment. Francis’ early bent
414to deep piety was greatly intensified during these years, and his views
415of disinterested or perfect love, so strongly brought out in later
416times, were scarcely more than the natural evolution of the thoughts and
417habits drilled into him during this formative period. He greatly enjoyed
418this home of piety and study. His love for the seminary never decayed.
419He declared on his death-bed that he knew of no institution more
420venerable or more apostolic.
421
422It was while at the seminary that Fénelon thought he had a call to the
423mission field. The congregation of St. Sulpice had a large missionary
424establishment at Montreal, and many of the students from the Paris house
425had gone thither. It was natural, with his intense unworldliness, that
426he should wish to follow in their footsteps, and in one of his descent
427it would not be surprising if the love of adventure was unconsciously
428mingled with a more religious ambition to show his love for the Savior
429by doing a great work for Him in a difficult field. How many have had
430these longings, but have been providentially prevented from carrying
431them out! In Fénelon’s case difficulties at once sprung up. His uncle,
432the Marquis Antoine, strongly objected on account of the delicacy of his
433constitution, and another uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat, coincided with
434this opinion. A letter on the subject to the bishop from M. Tronson,
435dated February, 1667, says, “His strong, persisting inclination, the
436firmness of his resolution, and the purity of his intentions have made
437me feel that they deserved attention, and led me to give you as exact a
438report as may be of our action in the matter.” The teacher had done his
439very best to dissuade the youth from his purpose. “I have told him
440plainly that if he can calm his longings and be quiet, he might, by
441going on with his studies and spiritual training, become more fitted to
442work usefully hereafter for the Church.” He adds, “I perceive too
443confirmed a resolution to have much hope of change.” The feelings called
444out were so strong that persuasion seemed useless, and so the teacher
445appealed to the authority of the guardians; which proved sufficient to
446stop the rash enterprise.
447
448But the missionary impulse still burned strongly in the breast of this
449enthusiastic youth, and it burst forth again a few years later. He
450received the tonsure, and entered holy orders in 1675, at the age of
451twenty-four, and went for a while to work in the diocese of his uncle,
452the Bishop of Sarlat. It was at this time that his thoughts were turned
453to the Levant. A letter of October 9, 1675, sets forth somewhat
454rhapsodically his excited feelings: “I long to seek out that Areopagus
455whence St. Paul preached the unknown God to heathen sages.... Neither
456will I forget thee, O island consecrated by the heavenly visions of the
457beloved disciple! O blessed Patmos, I will hasten to kiss the footsteps
458left on thee by the apostle, and to imagine heaven open to my gaze!...
459Already I see schism healed; East and West reunited; Asia awaking to the
460light after her long sleep; the Holy Land, once trodden by our Savior’s
461feet and watered by his blood, delivered from profaners and filled with
462new glory; the children of Abraham, more numerous than the stars, now
463scattered over the face of the earth, gathered from all her quarters to
464confess the Christ they crucified, and to rise again with him.” This was
465decidedly visionary, and somewhat overwrought; but it shows at least a
466heart on fire to do something extraordinary for God, and this he had at
467all periods of his life. He did not go to Greece and Palestine,
468abandoning the project in deference to the wishes of his family, to whom
469he was extremely reluctant to give pain. It was a romantic dream rather
470than a true vocation.
471
472It is thought by some that he really went to Montreal at a later date.
473The _Correspondence Litteraire_ of July 25, 1863,[2] gives a letter from
474the archives of the French Ministry of Marine in the handwriting of
475Colbert, the great Finance Minister of Louis XIV, who also had charge of
476the department of commerce, dated in 1675, to Frontenac, Governor of
477Canada, in which Louis XIV says: “I have blamed the action of Abbé
478Fénelon, and have ordered him not to return to Canada. But I ought to
479say to you that it was difficult to institute a criminal proceeding
480against him or oblige the priests of the seminary of St. Sulpice at
481Montreal to testify against him; and it was necessary to remit the case
482to his bishop or the grand vicar to punish him by ecclesiastical
483penalties, or to arrest him and send him back to France by the first
484ship.” There was not then in France any other abbé of that name, so far
485as is known. Somewhat confirmatory of it is the fact that Appleton’s
486Cyclopedia, in its account of the Society of St. Sulpice says, “In 1668
487the Sulpicians, François de Fénelon and Claude Trouvé, founded the first
488Iroquois mission at the western extremity of Lake Ontario, but their
489labors were confined principally to the Indians near Montreal.” The
490dates do not harmonize; but it may be that, in some irregular way that
491did not commend itself to the authorities, our hero was for a time in
492Canada; but if so, it is very singular that it left so little trace upon
493his life.
494
495He gave himself for some three years after his ordination to labors in
496the parish of St. Sulpice, living still at the seminary, and endeavoring
497to spread the light of his faith among the poor wherever he could reach
498them best, whether in prisons and hospitals or their own quarters. It
499was good training for him in many ways, enlarging his sympathies,
500deepening his views of life, and bringing him into touch with children
501as well as women. Doubtless he gathered in these years—for he had quick
502powers of observation and a very active mind—much of that amazing
503knowledge concerning these classes which surprised his friends when he
504came subsequently to pour forth in letters or books the wisest of
505counsels on education and kindred topics. M. Languet, curé of the parish
506at this time, was said to distribute more than a million francs in alms
507yearly, while his own room was furnished with nothing more than a coarse
508bed and two straw chairs. Under such guidance Fénelon could not fail to
509learn many useful lessons, and to become still more completely fitted
510for the great career which was soon to open before him.
511
512It was in 1678 that Fénelon, while attending quietly to his duties at
513the parish of St. Sulpice, preaching on Sundays and visiting among the
514poor during the week, received the important appointment of superior to
515the community called the Nouvelles Catholiques, or New Catholics. He was
516twenty-seven at this time, and had developed into a very lovable,
517charming, attractive, and every way promising young man. His high birth,
518solid education, brilliant parts, spotless life, eloquence of speech,
519and influential friends, all tended to bring him forward into the public
520eye. The words of the Chancellor d’Aguesseau on Fénelon, found in the
521memoirs of the life of his father, although applying perhaps in fullest
522measure a little later, may be inserted here, as showing what it must
523have been felt, by discerning observers, he would erelong become.
524
525“Fénelon,” says the chancellor, “was one of those uncommon men who are
526destined to give luster to their age; and who do equal honor to human
527nature by their virtues, and to literature by their superior talent. He
528was affable in his deportment and luminous in his discourse, the
529peculiar qualities of which were a rich, delicate, and powerful
530imagination, but which never let its power be felt. His eloquence had
531more of mildness in it than of vehemence; and he triumphed as much by
532the charms of his conversation as by the superiority of his talents. He
533always brought himself to the level of his company; he never entered
534into disputation, and he sometimes appeared to yield to others at the
535very time that he was leading them. Grace dwelt upon his lips. He
536discussed the greatest subjects with facility; the most trifling were
537ennobled by his pen; and upon the most barren he scattered the flowers
538of rhetoric. The peculiar but unaffected mode of expression which he
539adopted made many persons believe that he possessed universal knowledge
540as if by inspiration. It might indeed have been almost said that he
541rather invented what he knew than learned it. He was always original and
542creative, imitating no one, and himself inimitable. A noble singularity
543pervaded his whole person, and a certain undefinable and sublime
544simplicity gave to his appearance the air of a prophet.” His personal
545appearance has been well sketched by one of his contemporaries, the Duke
546de St. Simon, a satirical, misanthropical, utterly worldly man.
547“Fénelon,” says St. Simon, “was a tall man, thin, well-made, and with a
548large nose. From his eyes issued the fire and animation of his mind,
549like a torrent; and his countenance was such that I never yet beheld any
550one similar to it, nor could it ever be forgotten if once seen. It
551combined everything, and yet with everything in harmony. It was grave,
552and yet alluring; it was solemn, and yet gay; it bespoke equally the
553theologian, the bishop, and the nobleman. Everything which was visible
554in it, as well as in his whole person, was delicate, intellectual,
555graceful, becoming, and, above all, noble. It required an effort to
556cease looking at him. All the portraits are strong resemblances, though
557they have not caught that harmony which was so striking in the original,
558and that individual delicacy which characterized each feature. His
559manners were answerable to his countenance. They had that air of ease
560and urbanity which can be derived only from intercourse with the best
561society, and which diffused itself over all his discourse. He possessed
562a natural eloquence, graceful and finished, and a most insinuating yet
563noble and proper courtesy; an easy, clear, agreeable utterance; a
564wonderful power of explaining the hardest matters in a lucid, distinct
565manner. Add to all this that he was a man who never sought to seem
566cleverer than those with whom he conversed, who brought himself
567insensibly to their level, putting them at their ease, and enthralling
568them so that one could neither leave him nor distrust him, nor help
569seeking him again. It was this rare gift which he possessed to the
570utmost degree which bound all his friends so closely to him all his life
571in spite of his disgrace at court, and which led them, when scattered,
572to gather together to talk of him, regret him, long after him, and cling
573more and more to him, like the Jews to Jerusalem, and sigh and hope for
574his return, even as that unhappy race waits and sighs for their
575Messiah.”
576
577The community of the New Catholics had been founded in 1634 by
578Archbishop Gondi, as a protection for women converted from
579Protestantism, and as a means of propagating Church teachings among
580those yet unconverted. It was conducted by a community of women who did
581the work of Sisters of Charity outside its walls, and was presided over
582by a priest selected by the Archbishop of Paris. Marshal Turenne,
583himself a recent convert, gave largely to it, and the king, who was
584willing to combine gentle means with harsh for the accomplishment of his
585purposes in bringing all his subjects into one faith, took great
586interest in it. Hitherto the post of superior had been filled by much
587older men, but, though only twenty-seven, Fénelon was found to combine
588all those qualities which fitted him for the employment—distinguished
589talents, education, amiable manners, unusual prudence and discretion,
590much love to God, and great benevolence to man. The archbishop who
591selected him, M. de Harlai, was, as we have already noted, by no means
592of Fénelon’s stamp. He was a courtier, a man of the world, regardless of
593morality, and ever scheming for his own advancement. Having noted the
594capability of Fénelon, perhaps he thought, by making him a sort of
595protegé, he could attach him to his interests, obtain credit by his
596successes, and use him for his purposes. But if he thought this he did
597not show his usual discernment; for Fénelon, though willing to accept
598the office assigned, which gave promise of large usefulness, was in no
599way attracted by the character of his patron, and no considerations of
600expediency could induce him to pay court in that direction.
601Consequently, De Harlai’s early liking changed erelong to pronounced
602enmity. He noticed the absence of Fénelon from his levees, and when he
603did present himself at a certain reception, rebuked him with the words,
604“It seems that you desire to be forgotten, M. l’Abbé, and you will be.”
605Fénelon’s friendship also with Bossuet became established about this
606time, and this doubtless increased the animosity of the archbishop, as
607the two were rivals for the favor of the king, on which the coveted
608promotion to the cardinalate, which each desired, so largely depended.
609
610It was probably owing, somewhat at least, to this unfriendly influence
611on the part of De Harlai that Fénelon received no appointment which
612could supply him with funds; for the post of Superior carried no salary,
613and until 1681 he continued to be entirely dependent for everything upon
614his uncle, the marquis. In that year his uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat,
615resigned to him the deanery of Carenac, at Quercy, on the Dordogne, and
616this small benefice, producing between 3,000 and 4,000 livres
617annually—about $2,000 a year of modern money—was the only revenue
618Fénelon possessed for a long time, until, indeed, his forty-third year.
619On leaving the Sulpician seminary, he took up his abode with his uncle,
620the Marquis de Fénelon, in the Abbey of St. Germain, and gave himself up
621as entirely to his work as if he had not been brought into so much
622closer proximity to the court and the world of Paris. He avoided general
623society, only living intimately with some few chosen friends. His uncle
624was able to introduce him into a rare circle, prominent in which were
625the Duke and Duchess of Beauvilliers, and the Duke and Duchess of
626Chevreuse (the two ladies were sisters, daughters of the great finance
627minister, Colbert), Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, and Madame de Maintenon.
628We must say a few words about these people, for they had much to do with
629Fénelon through all his subsequent life.
630
631“The Duke de Beauvilliers,” says St. Simon, “was early touched by God,
632and never lost His presence, but lived entirely in the future world,
633indifferent to place and cabal and worldly advantage, content, when
634called to the council-board, simply to state his true opinion, without
635much caring whether it was followed or not.” Punctual and orderly almost
636to excess, he controlled his household with vigilant kindness, and took
637on his shoulders, as the king himself bore witness, a load of
638administrative details that would have killed four other men. In society
639he was rather shy and stiff by nature, as well as on principle
640exceedingly careful to set a close guard on eyes and ears and lips, so
641that even when, as a principal minister, he was the observed of all
642observers, surrounded by princes and nobles, he repelled by his reserve.
643He had been at court nearly all his life, having early succeeded Marshal
644Villeroy as head of the Council of Finance, and being also first
645gentleman of the chamber. He had also been governor of Havre. He was
646called to the treasury in 1685, and to the council-board in 1691. He was
647acknowledged on all sides to be a man of remarkable piety and purity of
648life, and, as a courtier, without reproach—a very rare thing in those
649days. His chief fault was his timidity, and his excessive subserviency
650to the king. But when his conscience was aroused he could show a
651boldness that was most admirable, and all the more to be commended
652because somewhat foreign to his nature. He remained true as steel to
653Fénelon to his dying day, his friendship never wavering or showing
654diminution, even when the latter was banished from court, and all his
655friends were in a measure under the ban because of the king’s fierce
656anger. In later years the king did his best to separate the two, even
657sending for the duke and explicitly threatening him with a like fate to
658that of his friend if he did not give him up. But the duke replied, with
659dignity and feeling: “Sire, you have placed me where I am, and you can
660displace me. I shall accept the will of my sovereign as the voice of
661God, and I should retire from court at your bidding regretting your
662displeasure, but hoping to lead a more peaceful life in retirement.”
663This manly, uncompromising stand made a deep impression on the king,
664who, in spite of his liking for his own way, knew that he could hardly
665afford to spare so faithful and conscientious a servant; nothing more
666was said about the matter.
667
668His brother-in-law, the Duke de Chevreuse, was different in disposition,
669though equally devoted to religion. He was abler, broader-minded, better
670informed, more genial and witty, but less systematic, and a very poor
671business man. He had no fixed hours for anything, and was always
672behindhand. Had it not been for the king he must have died a beggar; for
673he had little of his own, and his wife’s large fortune was wasted on
674costly but futile experiments, such as canals made at enormous expense
675to float down the timber from woods which he sold before even a tree was
676felled. He was charming in his manners, and was not simply loved, but
677adored by his family, and friends, and servants. Throughout his
678troubles, which were many, he was never for a moment cast down, but
679offered up his all to God and fixed his eyes on Him. “Never man
680possessed his soul in peace as he did,” wrote St. Simon, “as the
681Scripture says, ‘He carried it in his hands.’” He was even nearer to
682Fénelon in some ways than the other duke, and equally stanch in his
683attachment. He had no special portfolio in the ministry, but was
684consulted by the king about most departments, and was very highly
685esteemed by him.
686
687The two sisters, wives of these dukes—there were indeed three, the third
688having married the Duke de Mortemart, but of this family we hear almost
689nothing—were linked by the strongest bonds of sympathy and affection,
690and the three families lived in the closest union of principle and
691action, which gave them great strength amid the profligate, time-serving
692court. Twice a week there were dinners at the Hotel de Beauvilliers,
693where the society was at once select, intellectual, and devout. A bell
694was on the table, and no servant was present, that they might converse
695without restraint. It was in this society that Fénelon, being
696introduced, became speedily the leader. He was accepted by the two
697dukes, not as director simply but as spiritual master, as the mind of
698their mind, says St. Simon, the soul of their soul, the sovereign ruler
699of their heart and conscience. Such he remained all his days. Fénelon
700and the Beauvilliers had not been long acquainted before the duchess,
701mother of eight daughters, begged him to set down some rules for the
702guidance of their education. This request is a proof not only of the
703versatility of his powers, but of the strength of his faculty of
704intuition, that a court lady should have turned to him for help in such
705matters. He had been educated from childhood to his sacred calling, shut
706off from any experience of some of the strongest of life’s influences,
707and therefore on some accounts might seem poorly fitted to prove an apt
708adviser; but it was strongly felt that he possessed the secret of truest
709wisdom, that what he taught was drawn from too high a source to be
710greatly affected by the limits of personal experience. Throughout his
711life, indeed, it was his power of sympathy, of entering into the
712difficulties of others, of realizing temptations that can never have
713been present with him, that made his influence so comprehensive—a power
714rarer and more marvelous than the greatest of intellectual gifts.
715
716The work on the education of girls, which grew out of the duchess’s
717request, swelled into a considerable compass, and was first published in
7181687. It greatly increased his reputation, revealing a knowledge of
719child-nature which was most remarkable, and taking advanced ground in
720many particulars. He showed himself a thoroughgoing reformer, breaking
721away from the trammels of mediæval education that so long and so
722disastrously had ruled. There is hardly a page of it which might not
723afford profitable study for parents at the present day. It still holds a
724high position among works on this subject. His deep love for children
725sharpened his keen observation of all that concerned them. He severely
726reprobated the fashion of leaving them with uneducated persons; for he
727regarded the earliest years as of unspeakable importance in the
728formation of character.
729
730“Never let them show themselves off,” he says, “but do not be worried by
731their questions; rather encourage them; they are the most natural
732opportunities of teaching.” He discovered that children are always
733watching others, endowed with a great faculty of imitation, so that it
734is impossible to over-estimate the responsibility of their first
735guardians. He recognized the necessity of discipline; but if the child
736has merited disgrace, he pleads that there should be some one to whom
737she can turn for sympathy, thus showing that he had fathomed that
738overwhelming sense of loneliness which is one of childhood’s chief
739terrors. He says: “Make study pleasant, hide it under a show of liberty
740and amusement. Let the children interrupt their lessons sometimes with
741little jokes; they need such distraction to rest their brain. Never fear
742to give them reasons for everything. Never give extra lessons as a
743punishment.” His method was to treat children as reasonable beings
744instead of unruly animals whom it was necessary to coerce against their
745will; and his object was to make them regard learning as a privilege and
746delight, not as a penance forced upon them by the tyranny of their
747elders. He made religion the groundwork of all education, but he would
748have it guarded against superstition. He stood strongly for the true,
749best rights of women, counting their occupations no less important to
750the public than those of men. He would give the young girl useful solid
751tastes that would fill her mind with real interests and prevent idle
752curiosity and the dissipations of romance-reading. “Give them something
753to manage, on condition that they give you an account of it,” he pleads;
754“they will be delighted with the confidence, for it gives an incredible
755pleasure to the young when one begins to rely upon them and admit them
756to serious concerns.”
757
758This will suffice to show something of the trend of his work. Much that
759he urged is, of course, commonplace now, but it was not so in his day.
760He shows in his book so much knowledge of the needs and characteristics
761of little children not only, but of the special difficulties and
762infirmities of women, that it remains a marvel where, at this period of
763his life, he could have gained such insight into both. And all is
764illumined with his beautiful style and gentle spirit. Mr. John Morley
765remarks, “When we turn to modern literature from Fénelon’s pages, who
766does not feel that the world has lost a sacred accent, as if some
767ineffable essence had passed out from our hearts?”
768
769Madame de Maintenon has been mentioned as one of the little circle to
770whose intimacy Fénelon was introduced when beginning his Parisian
771career. The full particulars of her remarkable history must be sought in
772larger works. Yet it is essential that we know something concerning her,
773since for a while she was one of Fénelon’s best supporters, and then
774became one of his most persistent foes. She was the grandchild of
775Theodore Agrippa d’Aubigne, a noted Protestant warrior and a noble
776friend of Henry of Navarre, who died at Geneva in 1630.[3] Her father
777was a scamp, her mother a jailer’s daughter. She was a stout Protestant
778in her younger days, but being left penniless at an early age, and
779wholly dependent upon charitable relatives, she was placed in a Parisian
780convent, and there converted to Catholicism. She was still only
781seventeen and uncommonly good-looking when, to escape the pressure of
782dependence, she consented to become the wife of Scarron, a writer of
783comic poetry and a cripple. So Frances d’Aubigne became Madame Scarron,
784and somewhat improved her position. Her husband died in five years,
785leaving her a pension. Falling in with Madame de Montespan, the king’s
786mistress, that lady took a liking to her, and it was not long before she
787was established at a fine house in one of the suburbs, with a large
788income and a numerous staff of servants, as governess of the king’s
789illegitimate children by this mistress. At the end of four years the
790children, with their governess, were housed in the palace, and the
791influence of the said governess over the king, who was naturally thrown
792much in contact with her, steadily increased. By the savings from her
793salary and the presents of the king she was able to purchase the estate
794of Maintenon, not far from Paris, and the king, who never had liked the
795harsh name of Scarron, soon began to call her Madame de Maintenon, which
796henceforth became her title. In the midst of all the vicissitudes of her
797life she had maintained a good character, inheriting much from her
798grandfather, and now she became yet more austere in her piety. The Abbé
799Gobelin, a severe Jesuit confessor, directed her conscience, and Bossuet
800impressed his strong personality upon her. They persuaded her that she
801was the chosen instrument for the conversion of the king. So she set
802herself to the task, finding it on many accounts congenial, and
803achieving a remarkable degree of success. There seems to have been in
804the complex character of the king, in spite of his many sins, no little
805regard for religion—it is said that he never missed going to mass but
806once in his life—and he was already weary of Montespan, whose influence
807on him was unquestionably evil. So the new influence more and more
808prevailed; the mistress was dismissed to a convent, and the wise,
809devout, good-looking governess became a power at court, first lady in
810waiting to the crown princess, and female friend to the monarch. The
811king spent hours daily in her company, and was the better for it. She
812was a strict moralist, and none of the slanders rife about her seem to
813have any good foundation. She enjoyed the respect of the best people
814about the court, and was a friend of the neglected queen, who cried,
815“Providence has raised up Madame de Maintenon to bring my husband back
816to me.” And this new favorite, who was not a mistress, believed
817abundantly in the divine nature of her mission. She accepted the king’s
818friendship to give him good counsels and end his slavery to vice. The
819care of his salvation became the first and most absorbing of her duties.
820She held herself a monitress, charged to encourage and console him, or
821to check him with reproaches that none but she dared utter. He called
822her “Your Seriousness.” She never annoyed him with opposition, never
823encroached, had no will of her own, but became, as it were, the king’s
824conception of his better self, his second conscience, a magnet quick to
825draw him, sometimes into the really worthier of two opposing courses,
826always into the more ecclesiastically virtuous. The queen died in her
827arms in 1683. Two years after, she was privately married to the king by
828the Archbishop of Paris in the presence of Père Lachaise, the king’s
829confessor, after whom the famous cemetery in Paris is named. Such was
830the woman who ruled at Versailles when Fénelon came into office. He
831excited her interest on their first meeting, at or before 1683; for she
832wrote, under that date, to Madame de St. Geran: “Your Abbé de Fénelon is
833very well received; but the world does not do him justice. He is feared;
834he wishes to be loved; and is lovable.”
835
836We must briefly introduce one more personage to our readers before we
837can safely resume the current of the narrative. Jacques Bénigne Bossuet,
838who was for a while Fénelon’s friend and then became the bitterest of
839his foes, was born at Dijon, 1627. In his boyhood he was a brilliant
840scholar. At Paris he soon surpassed his teachers in acquirements. He
841took the Doctor’s bonnet in 1652, and in the same year was received into
842priest’s orders. He was first canon to the cathedral of Metz; in 1669,
843Bishop of Condom; in 1681, bishop of Meaux. In 1670 he was appointed
844preceptor to the dauphin, and gave most of his time for ten years to
845this office, resigning his bishopric for the purpose. In the pulpit his
846oratorical powers elicited universal applause. His celebrated Funeral
847Discourses, six in number, were, and still are, accounted masterpieces
848of rhetorical skill. Two words, strength and majesty, describe the
849dominant characteristics of his oratory. He had a mind well stored with
850noble sentiments. His sermons were almost entirely extempore, springing
851from a mind filled with his subject, guided by a few notes on paper.
852Attracted by the strength and sublimity of the Bible he moved largely
853within its circle of thought, rather than with saints, relics, and
854images, which were for the most part below the plane of his vision.
855Besides being one of the first preachers of the age, he was a celebrated
856polemic and a powerful writer, having also a Roman aptitude to rule. One
857of the strongest personalities which the French Church has produced, he
858exercised a commanding influence in various directions. The principles
859of Gallicanism as opposed to Ultramontanism found in him their stalwart
860champion. He was a famous apologist. His knowledge was completely at
861command, so that he did not shrink from oral disputation with the most
862learned adversaries. And he wielded a very strong pen. His “Exposition
863of the Catholic Faith” presents the doctrines of Rome in a liberal and
864plausible form. In his “History of the Variations of the Protestant
865Churches,” and also in other treatises, he made out what was considered
866at the time a very strong defense of the Roman Catholic faith, but he
867has since been convicted, not merely of inaccuracy, but of false and
868garbled quotations. He died in 1704.
869
870Bossuet, it will be seen, was twenty-four years older than Fénelon, and
871for a time was almost a father to him. At the zenith of his great
872reputation he was much attracted by the younger man and took great pains
873to attach him to himself. He invited him often, with one or two others,
874to his country residence at Germigny. They had stated hours of prayer
875and private study and relaxation, and in these last periods the bishop
876took pleasure in unfolding to his humbler companions all his sacred and
877literary stores of knowledge. Nothing could exceed the bishop’s regard
878for Fénelon, or Fénelon’s fondness for the bishop. The intercourse with
879a masculine intellect so much more developed than his own was, no doubt,
880a benefit to Fénelon, as well as a high compliment to him, for it
881compelled him to think for himself and brace himself somewhat in order
882to take a worthy part in the conversation. One can but regret that the
883friendship which seemed so suitable, and was prolific of such advantage
884to the Church, as well as mutual pleasure between these two great and
885good men, should in a few years, largely through misapprehensions and
886verbal disagreements, have been turned to bitterness and scandal.
887
888It is probable that the ten years during which Fénelon held the post of
889superior at the New Catholics was the sunniest of his life. It was at
890least the freest from difficulties and complications. He was discovering
891the large possibilities of his own powers, developing healthfully in all
892directions, with a pleasant occupation, bright prospects, and an
893ever-widening circle of friends, who looked to him as an influence for
894good, and increasingly hung upon his words. He was called in this period
895to mourn the loss of his dear uncle, the marquis, who had been in many
896ways, both spiritually and temporally, such a help to him, and who
897passed away October 8, 1683. Just how much he had to do in these years
898at the convent is not clear. It seems likely that he was little more
899than warden or visitor, in general charge of the instruction, the other
900matters being managed by the mother superior acting under the minute
901directions of the government. For converting to the old faith those who
902had been born and trained in heresy—many of them, it would appear,
903brought there early, against their will, or in violation of the proper
904rights of their parents—Fénelon was marvelously equipped, knowing the
905controversy perfectly, and knowing also what points to touch upon with
906infinite tact, what appeals would be most effective in individual cases,
907what arguments to use, what influences to exert, what spirit to exhibit.
908He undoubtedly proved himself the tenderest and most persuasive of
909advocates and ministers, modifying, so far as possible, the harshness of
910the state which he was powerless to prevent.
911
912It was his success at the head of this institution which called forth
913the next commission with which the king honored him, and which brought
914him into yet closer connection with the troubled current of affairs. In
915order the better to understand it we shall do well to pause at this
916point and consider for a little the ecclesiastical and political
917condition of France, and to some degree of the world at large.
918
919
920
921
922                              CHAPTER II.
923                      THE SETTING OF THE PICTURE.
924
925
926It is absolutely essential, in studying any character, that we take into
927careful account the age and land in which he lived. We can not rightly
928estimate his merits or demerits unless we know the circumstances under
929which he was brought up, and the influences to which he was subjected.
930The background of the picture has large importance for showing off in
931proper light the principal figure. The setting of the gem has something
932to do with our appreciation of its value. Deeds which in one century
933would cover their perpetrator with infamy, in another would be regarded
934as wholly excusable. The amount of light afforded strictly measures the
935amount of guilt involved. Unavoidable ignorance exculpates. Fullness of
936knowledge imposes responsibility. No greater mistake could be made than
937to judge people irrespective of their surroundings. Moreover, it adds
938immensely to our interest in any person if we can, to some degree at
939least, look out upon the world with his eyes, see what he saw, and so be
940helped to feel as he felt. We become the better acquainted with him in
941proportion as we are able to put ourselves in his place. We can
942certainly estimate him more equitably according as we reproduce to our
943mind the scenes of his day.
944
945This being so, before we go further with the personal history of Fénelon
946the Saint we shall do well to spend a little while familiarizing
947ourselves with the world of his day both civil and ecclesiastical. How
948were matters in Church and State during the period in which this great
949man flourished? What was going on among the nations in general, and in
950France particularly? A brief survey seems necessary to give us the right
951point of view. Since Fénelon was born in 1651, the second half of the
952seventeenth century would appear to be in the main his epoch. What was
953the condition of things throughout Christendom then?
954
955In America the middle of the seventeenth century saw the English making
956good their foothold on the rude Atlantic shore, in Virginia,
957Massachusetts, New York, and a few other points, contending with the
958Indians, the Dutch, and the home government, jealous of their liberties,
959extending their trade, and inaugurating great enterprises. It was in
9601656 that the Quakers arrived in Boston. A bloody persecution sprung up
961against them in the few years following, and four were put to death. It
962was still later in the century, 1692, that the horrible proceedings
963against witchcraft took place in Salem, where many were most unjustly
964hanged, and many more tortured into confession of abominable falsehoods.
965It is well to remember this when we grow indignant over the persecution
966of the Huguenots in France. Further north, in Acadie, or Nova Scotia,
967and Canada, the French had already explored the St. Lawrence and the
968great lakes, made some feeble settlements, and converted some of the
969Indians. Their missionaries and adventurers were full of heroism and
970zeal. Later in the century they discovered the Mississippi, and claimed
971all the territory in that Western region from its source to its mouth,
972calling it, after the great king, Louisiana.
973
974In England, 1650 saw Oliver Cromwell in pretty complete possession of
975power, Charles I having been beheaded the year before. In 1651 the royal
976army was totally defeated at Worcester, and Charles II soon after
977escaped in disguise to France to come back triumphantly in 1660, when
978the Lord Protector had passed away. During the Commonwealth Roman
979Catholics were deprived of the privilege of voting or holding office,
980and the use of the Prayer-book was forbidden to Episcopalians. It was in
981the short reign of James II (1685-88) that Judge Jeffreys wrote his name
982with letters of blood in the annals of English history. When the people
983turned to William of Orange, the perfidious and tyrannical James was
984forced to flee with his family to France, and spent the remainder of his
985days at St. Germain, a pensioner on the bounty of Louis XIV. Anne, the
986younger daughter of James II, reigned over England from 1701 to 1714.
987
988On the continent of Europe the terrible Thirty Years’ War (1618-1648)
989between Protestants and Catholics, memorable for the brave deeds of
990Gustavus Adolphus, had just closed in the Peace of Westphalia, by which
991Brandenburg—the forerunner of Prussia—was enlarged, and Saxony
992strengthened, while Switzerland and the low countries, or Netherlands,
993were acknowledged as independent States. The Belgic Provinces, between
994the Netherlands and France, divided among themselves, remained
995submissive to Spain and the Roman Catholic Church. They became involved
996in the wars attending the decline of the Spanish monarchy, and during
997the remainder of the century were the theater of fierce struggles
998between contending armies, and were subjected to many changes of
999boundaries.
1000
1001Central Europe, where were the States of Bohemia, Bavaria, Moravia,
1002Austria, and smaller principalities, was loosely confederated into the
1003German Empire under the Imperial Diet at Frankfort. Ferdinand III at
1004this time held the imperial dignity. His death was followed by the long
1005reign of Leopold I (1657-1705). He attacked the Turks on the East and
1006the French monarch on the West. From the former he obtained a great
1007stretch of territory, and in the combination which kept down the
1008towering ambition of the latter he was one of the chief factors. In the
1009North was the strong kingdom of Sweden—soon to be made still stronger by
1010the victories of Charles X—and the weak kingdom of Denmark. On the East
1011were Poland and Russia and the Turk. On the South were Spain, Portugal,
1012and Italy. Portugal, after a most honorable history had been annexed by
1013Philip II to the Spanish realm; but in 1640, after a forced union of one
1014hundred and sixty years, it was freed by a bold and successful
1015conspiracy of the nobles, from all connection with Spain, although its
1016independence was not formally recognized till 1668. Spain had wholly
1017lost her former headship in European politics and was in a bad way under
1018the last rulers of the Hapsburg dynasty, bigoted, intolerant,
1019incompetent; disordered finances, impaired industries—due largely to the
1020barbarous expulsion of the Moors—and inferior military forces left her
1021in the second rank of powers.
1022
1023Italy was a mere geographical expression, the territory being split up
1024under the rule of petty princes largely swayed by foreign influence;
1025much of the country indeed was under direct foreign dominion. Among the
1026native rulers the Dukes of Savoy were perhaps the most enterprising and
1027successful. Venice maintained a fair degree of prosperity. Naples was an
1028appanage of the Spanish crown. The popes had larger territorial
1029possessions, in the center of the country, than at any previous or
1030subsequent time. But this local importance was more than offset by loss
1031in the larger sphere of influence and prerogative. Convenience, indeed,
1032occasionally led a prominent sovereign to submit some question to the
1033papal judgment; in many instances his wishes were openly disregarded,
1034and in the leading questions of European politics no deference was paid
1035him.
1036
1037An interesting episode occurring just at this time perhaps deserves
1038mention. Queen Christina of Sweden, the talented but eccentric daughter
1039of the great Gustavus Adolphus, in 1654 abdicated her throne in favor of
1040her cousin, quitted the land of her fathers, was solemnly admitted into
1041the Roman Catholic Church at Innspruck, and established her permanent
1042residence in Rome till her death in 1689. The pope, Alexander VII,
1043considered it the special distinction of his pontificate that he was
1044permitted to welcome so distinguished a convert; but she did not prove
1045in all things wholly satisfactory, not finding matters quite as she
1046expected—a frequent experience in such cases. To Gilbert Burnet, the
1047English Bishop of Salisbury, who paid her a visit, she said, “It was
1048certain that the Church was governed by the immediate care of God, for
1049none of the four popes that she had known since she came to Rome had
1050common sense.” She called them “the first and the last of men.”
1051
1052The history of France during the period in which Fénelon flourished must
1053be given at somewhat greater length if we would properly comprehend the
1054part which he took on the stage of action. And especially must we attend
1055to the character of Louis XIV, with whom Fénelon was brought into such
1056exceeding close and fateful relations. Louis came to the throne in 1643,
1057but as he was then only five years old he did not assume personal charge
1058of the government. Cardinal Mazarin, who had succeeded the great
1059Richelieu at his death in 1642, was chief minister in the Council of
1060State which advised the Queen Mother and regent, Anne of Austria. On the
1061death of Mazarin in 1661, Louis took supreme direction of affairs, and
1062retained it until his death in 1715. It was a very long and, in some
1063respects, a very successful reign, the most illustrious in French
1064annals; a sort of Solomonic era, to be compared with the age of Pericles
1065in Greece, Augustus in Rome, and Elizabeth in England. It was brilliant
1066in many directions; an age of conquest and the extension of territory
1067abroad; an age of great personalities in literature and art at home.
1068Among the latter are the well-known names of Corneille, the tragic poet;
1069Moliere, the master of comedy; Racine, La Fontaine, La Rochefoucauld, La
1070Bruyere, Pascal, Malebranche, and Madame de Sévigné. Voltaire and
1071Rousseau were born during this reign, but mainly flourished later. Among
1072eminent painters were Poussin, Claude Lorrain, Lebrun, and Mignard. As
1073architects, Mansart and Perrault were famous; among sculptors, Piget;
1074among composers, Lulli. Celebrated in the pulpit were Bossuet,
1075Bourdaloue, Massillon, and Flechier; as Church historians, Natalis
1076Alexander, Fleury, and Tillemont. In the field the prestige of the
1077French armies was upheld by the genius of Turenne, Condé, Vauban,
1078Luxemburg, and Catinat. Under these marshals many victories were won in
1079an almost constant succession of wars with Spain, Holland, England, the
1080Empire, and other antagonists. The peace which Louis dictated to Europe
1081at Nimeguen, February 5, 1679, raised him to his highest point of power
1082and glory. The headship of the world seemed to be within his grasp, if
1083indeed it was not already attained. His courtiers worshiped him as a
1084demigod; two triumphal arches were erected to his honor in Paris;
1085foreign governments regarded him with keen apprehension or with servile
1086awe. He excited wonder and fear throughout the continent, for his
1087ambitious projects of still vaster dominion seemed to threaten the
1088safety and independence of all his neighbors. He was possessed of a
1089strong mind, a resolute will, considerable sagacity and penetration,
1090much aptitude for business, and an indefatigable industry. His powers of
1091application were remarkable. When he gave direction in 1661 that he
1092would be his own prime minister, that all business should pass through
1093his hands, and all questions be decided directly by himself, every one
1094expected that he would soon tire of the drudgery which this would
1095impose; but he kept it up till the end of his life, laboring regularly
1096in his cabinet eight hours a day. He had the most extravagant ideas of
1097the royal prerogative. He was an absolute, irresponsible monarch,
1098accustomed to say and mean, “The State: it is myself.” Even the property
1099of the realm he considered as his. In an instruction to his son he
1100declared, “Kings are absolute lords and have naturally the full and free
1101disposal of all the goods possessed, as well by Churchmen as by laymen,
1102to use them at all times according to the general need of their State.”
1103Having this conception of his power, regarding his authority as
1104delegated immediately from heaven, he surrounded himself with those who
1105would be subservient to his will, and the one avenue of advancement was
1106his favor; without this, virtue and merit had little or no chance of
1107recognition. He made his court at Versailles a very splendid one,
1108everywhere praised and admired as the model of taste and refinement. It
1109became the center of fashion for Europe, and the only place of high
1110attraction in the kingdom. Henri Martin, in his “History of France,”
1111says: “Whoever had once tasted this life so brilliant, so animated, so
1112varied, could no longer quit it and return to his native manor without
1113dying of languor and ennui. Everything seemed cold and dead away from
1114this place of enjoyment, which appeared, to town and province, as the
1115very ideal of human life.” It is estimated that a sum, equal to more
1116than 400,000,000 francs at the present rate, was laid out on the palaces
1117and pleasure-grounds of Versailles, transforming an unsightly district
1118into fairy-land.
1119
1120Was this Louis XIV, then, a really great man? Not when tried by tests
1121that go far and reach deep. As one has said: “His claim to renown lies
1122more in the diligent and tireless ambition with which he improved
1123favoring circumstances than in the creation of great results out of
1124small means by force of personal genius and energy. It is also a
1125limiting factor in our estimate of Louis that he exercised no care to
1126husband the resources of his country, and sacrificed to thirst for
1127personal display the chances of future prosperity. This imposing and
1128brilliant reign left France exhausted and harboring within herself the
1129germs of violent revolution.” In the latter part of his reign the
1130coalition against him under Marlborough and Prince Eugene proved
1131eminently successful, and much of his ill-gotten acquisitions had to be
1132disgorged. Moreover, his reign was also a failure in that, for the sake
1133of slight and temporary gains on the continent of Europe, he threw away
1134the opportunity to forestall in Asia and America the progress of
1135England, so soon to pass France in the race for world supremacy, and
1136left his kingdom, at the close of his reign, exhausted and crippled, in
1137no condition to enter upon the decisive stage of the great conflict
1138whose approach he did not foresee. Before his burial the eyes of
1139Frenchmen had begun to be open to the shadowy side of his reign; the
1140glamour and the glory could no longer hide the tyranny and the shame,
1141and very few mourned at the death of the magnificent despot. He was far
1142from great also in his private life; for that was, for a long time, one
1143of unblushing licentiousness. Different mistresses were made
1144successively, and in part simultaneously, the rivals of his dishonored
1145queen, Maria Theresa of Spain, who died in 1683. No less than ten
1146children were born to him out of wedlock, and publicly acknowledged.
1147After the death of his queen he did somewhat better, being privately
1148married to Madame de Maintenon, as already noted.
1149
1150The cruel persecutions of the Huguenots must also be set down against
1151the king, although in this, surely, we should make much allowance
1152because of the feeling of the age in such matters—a feeling not by any
1153means the same as in our day. Louis, like many others before and since,
1154endeavored to atone for the excesses and frailties of his private life
1155by his public zeal for orthodoxy, fancying that the slaughter of
1156heretics would offset his adulteries. His crowning crime was the
1157revocation of the Edict of Nantes. By this arbitrary act of unprovoked
1158despotism he annulled forever all the highly prized privileges granted
1159to the Huguenots, after their large sufferings and heroic efforts in
1160self-defense, by Henry IV and Louis XIII. He absolutely prohibited the
1161exercise of their religion throughout the kingdom, with the sole
1162exception of Alsace; ordered their temples to be leveled with the
1163ground, and their ministers to quit France within fifteen days; forbade
1164the people to follow their pastors into exile under pain of confiscation
1165and condemnation to the galleys; and required their children to be
1166baptized henceforth by the Catholic priests and educated as members of
1167the Established Church. Before this, in the earlier years of the reign,
1168stringent measures had been set in operation for the conversion of the
1169Protestants and the establishment of uniformity of faith and Church
1170government throughout the kingdom. Louis was intolerant of dissent,
1171partly from political motives. He could not brook that any of his
1172subjects should exercise so much independence and freedom of thought as
1173was involved in worshiping God or thinking about Him after a different
1174pattern from the one set by himself. They ought all to take their
1175opinions from the throne, he held, in religious as well as in secular
1176matters, and because they did not they were extremely objectionable and
1177dangerous. As early as 1656 a disposition was shown to interpret the
1178Edict of Nantes—given by Henry IV, April 15, 1598—in a narrow partisan
1179fashion, to the disadvantage of the Protestants. Numbers of the Reformed
1180places of worship were shut up on frivolous pretenses. The worshipers
1181were excluded from all public functions, from the liberal professions,
1182from the universities, from engaging in various branches of commerce and
1183industry. They were forbidden to intermarry with Catholics, and their
1184children were encouraged to forsake the faith of their parents by being
1185declared capable of choosing for themselves at the age of seven years.
1186Every sort of pressure was applied. A Bureau of Conversions was
1187established under the direction of the Minister Pelissier, who disbursed
1188the funds intrusted to him at the rate of six livres for every
1189abjuration of the Reformed religion. Milder measures not proving
1190sufficiently efficacious and speedy, more severe and savage means were
1191employed. Dragoons were sent into the disturbed districts and quartered
1192on the inhabitants; they were permitted, and even encouraged, to abandon
1193themselves to every kind of brutal license, violence, and excess,
1194establishing a veritable reign of terror wherever they appeared. It is
1195no wonder that, under these horrors, wearied and worried well-nigh to
1196death by such intolerable impositions, great numbers of Huguenots
1197recanted, nominally, although, of course, their real beliefs were not
1198changed. And when the protecting Edict was formally revoked, still more
1199fearful cruelties followed. Multitudes of the Reformed, obstinately
1200refusing obedience, were consigned to loathsome dungeons, racked with
1201exquisite tortures, and treated with every kind of outrage short of
1202actual murder. Numbers of females were immured for life in convents;
1203infants were torn from the arms of their mothers; their property was
1204destroyed, and whole districts were laid waste. How far the king was
1205strictly responsible for the whole of these horrors is a matter of some
1206question; but it is certain that he received with great satisfaction the
1207chorus of congratulations, on this memorable Catholic triumph, from the
1208court sycophants, who hailed him as the new Constantine, and who
1209included in their number such men as Bossuet, Massillon, Racine, and La
1210Fontaine. But Louis inflicted almost as deadly a blow upon his country
1211by these persecutions as the rulers of Spain had upon theirs when they
1212drove out the Moors and Jews. France robbed herself of her best
1213citizens, the most enterprising and industrious of her skilled artisans.
1214They fled abroad to the number of at least a quarter of a million,
1215escaping from France to enrich England, Holland, and other countries
1216with the fruits of their labors. Among them was the Duke of Schomberg,
1217one of the best generals of his time, who placed his sword at the
1218disposal of the Prince of Orange. Many also who remained were so
1219crippled and depressed that they could no longer render their best
1220service. Moreover, a bitter and profound resentment was kindled in the
1221Protestant States of Europe, which acted very unfavorably upon the
1222foreign relations of France, and strengthened the hands of the coalition
1223against her. So, in every sense, the policy must be adjudged a mistaken
1224one, counting against the greatness of the king.
1225
1226It is important to inquire what was the state of the French Church at
1227this period. It is impossible, of course, for us to enter into extended
1228details, but we can hardly understand either Fénelon or his times
1229without knowing something about the ecclesiastical religious questions
1230which were then agitating the public mind. Religion was by no means in a
1231stagnant state, or treated with indifference and apathy; it everywhere
1232excited keenest attention. No subject was more eagerly discussed or
1233occupied a larger share of thought. Besides the general controversy
1234between Protestants and Romanists, there were many divisions in the
1235ranks of the latter. There was fierce conflict between the Jesuits and
1236Jansenists, also between the Gallicans and Ultramontanists. For a full
1237recital of the story our readers will be obliged to consult Church
1238histories and cyclopedias.
1239
1240Of the Jesuits little need here be said; their history is very well
1241known. Established by Ignatius Loyola in 1540, the system was, in the
1242period we are considering, something over a hundred years old, and
1243numbering about fifteen thousand members, of whom half were priests. Its
1244leading purposes were the overthrow of Protestantism and the
1245strengthening of the papacy. It had a magnificent organization, it
1246largely controlled the education of the youth of the better classes of
1247society, and it was intensely zealous in missionary operations, Francis
1248Xavier, so illustrious in this matter, being one of its original
1249founders. In politics it often favored popular rights, especially if it
1250would benefit the papacy by reducing the power of the sovereign; yet it
1251usually secured control over the princes by obtaining their ear in the
1252confessional. In doctrine it was opposed to Augustinianism, and in
1253ethics became notorious for most dangerous looseness. It should not be
1254forgotten, however, that the order had at all times many members eminent
1255for piety and strict morality, some of the highest saints being numbered
1256with them. In France the important office of confessor to the king was
1257filled by members of this order under Henry IV, Louis XIII, XIV, XV;
1258and, of course, in this way an enormous influence was exercised upon the
1259royal policy at home and abroad. The connivance of these confessors with
1260the scandalous lives of the kings did more than anything else to
1261undermine respect for the Roman Catholic Church and for religion in
1262general among the educated classes. Between the Jesuits and Jansenists
1263there was fierce war.
1264
1265The latter took their name from Bishop Cornelius Jansen, of Ypern, who
1266died in 1638, after devoting his whole life to the study of the works of
1267St. Augustine. His followers were Augustinians in the fullest sense of
1268the term, accepting the extreme doctrines of election and predestination
1269which are known among Protestants as Calvinism; but this in no way
1270predisposed them to favor the Huguenots. On the contrary they seemed to
1271hate them all the more because of this manifest approach to them in some
1272of their principles, partly because it exposed them to a galling
1273criticism from the Jesuits. The Jansenists in many ways recommend
1274themselves to our approval. They opposed a simply formal righteousness,
1275insisted on the necessity for an inward preparation to receive benefits
1276from the sacraments, and laid stress upon the reading of the Scriptures.
1277In regard to morals, they advocated rigid self-discipline, were foes of
1278luxury, the theater, and other doubtful or noxious pleasures. They also
1279had more independence than most classes of society. They were not ready
1280to surrender everything to the absolute sovereignty of the king; they
1281stood for liberty in the Church. In point of ability and culture they
1282furnished some of the best minds of France, and some of the best models
1283of literary excellence which the age could boast. Blaise Pascal, whose
1284“Provincial Letters” (1656) against the Jesuits inflicted upon them so
1285severe a blow by their scathing exposures, was of this party. So was De
1286Sacy, who translated the Bible into the version in general use; and
1287Antoine Arnauld, the celebrated scholar and Doctor of the Sorbonne, the
1288theological department of the University of Paris. His sister,
1289Jacqueline, became abbess of the convent of Port Royal near Paris, and
1290made it renowned for its purity and piety. Jansenism or “Calvinistic
1291Catholicism,” as it has been called, finally went down before its
1292enemies, the popes deciding against it more than once. On many accounts
1293it deserved a better fate; but we can not regret that such a travesty of
1294Christianity as the sole salvation of an arbitrarily limited and
1295eternally selected few was as conclusively defeated in the Roman
1296Catholic Church as it has since been in the Protestant.
1297
1298The Jesuits were Ultramontanes; that is, they did everything they could
1299to strengthen the authority from beyond the mountains, residing in the
1300city on the Tiber. The Jansenists favored Gallicanism. A few words are
1301necessary about this latter, for it had a large place in the discussions
1302of the time, and echoes of it have continued to our day, the long
1303conflict coming to an end in the recent rupture of the Concordat between
1304France and the Vatican. The quarrel is of very long standing. It is
1305historically certain that at a very early period the National Church of
1306France had a character of freedom peculiar to itself. The Frankish
1307Church in the time of Charlemagne gave evidence of a spirit and temper
1308obviously different from the Italian ideal of the Church as organized
1309under the popes. The French Parliaments from time to time manfully
1310resisted encroachments on their powers or those of their kings, from
1311beyond the mountains. As early as 1269, Louis IX of France issued an
1312edict—so it is alleged—called the Pragmatic Sanction, in which he strove
1313to protect the freedom of Church elections and the rights of patrons
1314from the interference of the popes, and forbade papal taxation without
1315the consent of the monarch. This conflict went on through the centuries
1316with various incidents and differing results, which need not here be
1317followed, although it is a very interesting story. In the time of Louis
1318XIV matters naturally came to a head through the determination of that
1319monarch to extend his absolute authority over the Church as well as the
1320State, and through the support which he received from the strong feeling
1321of nationality which dominated the French people during his reign,
1322Louis’s aim was to exercise such power in ecclesiastical matters in
1323France as Henry VIII had taken to himself in England, but not to effect
1324a complete rupture with Rome. In particular he determined to enforce the
1325right of the crown to the revenue and the patronage connected with
1326vacant sees, which had long been exercised over a large part of the
1327realm; he insisted on extending it to all the provinces. An assembly of
1328the clergy was called in 1682, under the lead of Bossuet, the chief
1329champion of the king in these matters. Four important articles
1330formulating the opposition of France to the high claims of the papacy
1331were drawn up by Bossuet, subscribed to by this assembly, and confirmed
1332by the civil authorities. They contained in substance the following
1333specifications: (1) The pope’s authority, as also that of the Church in
1334general, is confined to things spiritual. He has no prerogative to
1335depose kings and princes or to release their subjects from allegiance.
1336(2) The decrees promulgated at Constance respecting the authority of
1337Ecumenical Councils subsist in full force. (3) In the use of his power
1338the pope must respect the ecclesiastical canons, as also such
1339constitutions as are received in the kingdom and Church of France. (4)
1340While the pope has the principal voice in matters of faith, his judgment
1341is subject to amendment until it has been approved by the Church.
1342
1343Bossuet, the leading spirit of this assembly, and indeed the most
1344powerful and commanding Churchman of his day, esteemed the boasted
1345infallibility of the pope a baseless fiction. He allowed that
1346indefectibility belongs to the chair of Peter in the sense that heresy
1347can not find there any continuous and stubborn support. But this, he
1348maintained, in no wise precluded a temporary aberration of the
1349individual pontiff or the competency of the universal Church to
1350administer correction to the pontiff. Such principles had been at home
1351in France ever since the era of the great Reform Councils of the
1352fifteenth century. The pope—Innocent XI was then in the chair—was highly
1353incensed, and refused confirmation to those members of the assembly of
13541682 whom the king nominated to episcopal sees. Affairs remained in a
1355very unsettled condition for a considerable interval, no mode of
1356accommodation being reached, each party standing its ground; but in 1691
1357the French Church found itself with thirty-five bishoprics vacant, and
1358the king allowed the twelve signers of the declaration whom he had
1359nominated as bishops, but whom the pope had thus far refused to
1360recognize as such, to retract all that had displeased the pontiff. The
1361pope also gained some advantage from the bitter partisan conflicts
1362within the Gallican Church during the closing years of Louis XIV.
1363
1364As to the amount of spiritual life in the Church during these years it
1365is not so easy to acquire reliable information as it is concerning the
1366more outward events. But there are many indications that it was very
1367considerable, that the Roman Catholic Church at that period was in a
1368very much better state than it is at present. There was an evident
1369desire among a large number of its clergy to rid it of its gross
1370superstitions. They opposed some of its absurdities, omitted many of its
1371ridiculous ceremonies, endeavored to render Catholicism more rational
1372and intelligent, more Scriptural and pious. There are tokens that France
1373had then a very large number of true followers of the Savior; some in
1374elevated stations whose virtues shine afar, but many more in obscure
1375positions, God’s hidden ones, known only to Him and to those immediately
1376around them. Among the more prominent of the writers on spiritual
1377subjects flourishing at this time in France may be mentioned Antoinette
1378Bourignon (died 1680), whose published works amount to twenty-five
1379volumes: one of her hymns, “Come, Savior, Jesus, from above,” translated
1380by John Wesley, is in our Hymnal, No. 379. Peter Poiret (died in 1719),
1381court preacher of the Palatine, was an admirer of Madame Bourignon,
1382whose works he published; he also brought out the works of Madame Guyon
1383in thirty-nine volumes; he was both a philosopher and a deeply pious
1384man. The Baron de Renty (1611-1649) was a man of the profoundest
1385spirituality, greatly admired by Wesley, who spoke of him in the highest
1386terms, and published his life. Alphonsus de Sarasa (died in 1666) gave
1387to the world “The Art of Always Rejoicing,” a beautiful book, filled
1388with the deepest Christian philosophy. The Abbé Guilloré, also a
1389contemporary of Fénelon and belonging to the same school of piety, left
1390to the world as his monument a treatise on “Self-Renunciation,” or the
1391“Art of Dying to Self and Living for the Love of Jesus.” And Nicholas
1392Herman, better known as Brother Lawrence, admitted, in 1666, as a lay
1393brother among the barefooted Carmelites at Paris, is still known in the
1394realm of pure and undefiled religion by his letters on “The Practice of
1395the Presence of God,” published at the instance of the Cardinal de
1396Noailles. St. Vincent de Paul (died 1660), to mention but one more of
1397these illustrious names, founder of the order of Sisters of Charity, was
1398a philanthropist of the first rank. Neglected children, condemned
1399criminals, prisoners of the cell and the galley, all classes of the poor
1400and the unfortunate, received from him a sympathy as practical as it was
1401warm and persevering. Consecrated activity he regarded as the essence of
1402religion. The spirit of his life is well expressed in his own words:
1403“The genuine mark of loving God is a good and perfect action. It is only
1404our works which accompany us into the other life.” From all this it is
1405seen that the age and land which produced Fénelon had many other sons
1406and daughters of very similar excellence.
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411                              CHAPTER III.
1412                        PRECEPTOR TO THE PRINCE.
1413
1414
1415Louis XIV, being bent upon the subjection of the Huguenots, and knowing
1416full well that violence alone could accomplish the matter only in part,
1417cast about in his mind for a suitable person to undertake the milder
1418rôle of persuasion. Fénelon had already attracted notice both by his
1419good work at the community of New Catholics and also by the treatise
1420which he had written in defense of the Apostolic Succession. So when
1421Bossuet suggested him as a suitable commissioner for the districts of
1422Poitou and Saintonge, in the West, not far from the Protestant
1423stronghold of La Rochelle, districts where great confusion and
1424irritation prevailed, and where only a tender, judicious hand could hope
1425to guide matters, the king very gladly made the appointment. Fénelon,
1426before accepting it, made two stipulations. One was that he should be
1427allowed to choose his fellow-workers. He selected the Abbé de Langeron,
1428his lifelong friend, the Abbé Fleury, the well-known historian, the Abbé
1429Bertier, and the Abbé Milon, who later on became respectively Bishops of
1430Blois and of Condom. The other stipulation was that the troops, together
1431with all that savored of military terrorism, should be withdrawn before
1432he entered on what should be solely a work of peace and mercy. There had
1433been terrible doings and violent outrages with which Fénelon could have
1434no sympathy. There is no doubt whatever upon this point. His own words
1435are abundantly on record. Although the country was so disturbed, he
1436positively refused a military escort; and when the king represented the
1437danger he might be exposed to, he answered: “Sire, ought a missionary to
1438fear danger? If you hope for an apostolical harvest, we must go in the
1439true character of apostles. I would rather perish by the hands of my
1440mistaken brethren than see one of them exposed to the inevitable
1441violence of the military.” In a letter to a duke he says, “The work of
1442God is not effected in the heart by force; that is not the true spirit
1443of the Gospel.”
1444
1445He had the extremely difficult task of showing to Protestants whose
1446property had been pillaged, whose families had been scattered, whose
1447blood had been shed like water, the truth and excellence of the religion
1448of their persecutors. That this could be done to any very extensive
1449degree might well be questioned. But the missionaries were characterized
1450by ability, mildness, prudence, benevolence, and sound judgment, and
1451they did all that any reasonable persons could expect. The people of
1452these provinces were amazed to see men of high birth and position
1453leaving the court and capital to come among them. They supposed that, at
1454all events, such men would be luxurious and haughty, as they had been
1455told; but when, on the contrary, they saw the missionaries nothing but
1456lowly, self-denying, simple-mannered priests, whose real aims seemed to
1457be the temporal as well as spiritual advantage of those among whom they
1458lived, prejudice began to melt away. In February, 1686—the mission began
1459in December, 1685, and lasted till July, 1686, being renewed for a few
1460months in the next year, May to July, 1687—Fénelon wrote to the Marquis
1461de Seignelai, Secretary of State, and brother to the Duchess de
1462Beauvilliers: “In the present condition of men’s minds we could easily
1463bring them all to confession and communion if we chose to use a little
1464pressure and so glorify our mission. But what is the good of bringing
1465men to confession who do not yet recognize the Church? How can we give
1466Jesus Christ to those who do not believe they are receiving Him? We
1467should expect to bring a terrible curse upon us if we were satisfied
1468with hasty, superficial work, all meant for show. We can but multiply
1469our instructions, invite the people to come heartily to sacraments, but
1470give them only to those who come of their own accord to seek them in
1471unreserved submission. I must not forget to add that we want a great
1472quantity of books, especially New Testaments.” Again he writes later:
1473“The corn you have sent so cheaply proves to the people that our charity
1474is practical. It is the most persuasive kind of controversy. It amazes
1475them, for they see the exact reverse of all their ministers have taught
1476them as incontrovertibly true. We need preachers to explain the Gospel
1477every Sunday with a loving, winning authority; people brought up in
1478dissent are only to be won by the words spoken to them. We must give New
1479Testaments profusely everywhere, but they must be in large type; the
1480people can not read small print. We can not expect them to buy Catholic
1481books. It is a great thing if they will read what costs them nothing;
1482indeed the greater proportion can not afford to buy.” He wrote also to
1483Bossuet in March, 1686, “Our converts get on, but very slowly; it is no
1484trifling matter to change the opinions of a whole people.” It is very
1485evident that Fénelon had the most sincere desire for the conversion of
1486the Protestants, believing, of course, as he did, from the bottom of his
1487heart, that they were destined to eternal woe. Brought up in the
1488atmosphere in which he was, he could not possibly sympathize with their
1489position, could not regard their heroism as other than obstinacy. But
1490such was the natural mildness of his disposition and his acquaintance
1491with the demands of genuine religion, that he could in no way be content
1492with a merely nominal acquiescence or consent, and with the use of that
1493force by which such acquiescence was obtained.
1494
1495His mission to Saintonge has been called a dark page in his life. Yet
1496the strongly prejudiced writer who so characterizes it says in the same
1497connection, after referring to Fénelon’s firm stand against violence and
1498the forcing of conscience: “To us this measure of clemency seems bare
1499and scanty enough; in Fénelon’s own time it was both unusual and
1500effective. His counsels of mercy had weight with the minister, and led
1501to the suppression of various abuses, civil as well as ecclesiastical.
1502They manifestly gained for him the affection of his proselytes, and,
1503stirring up against him the bile of the more rigid Catholics, seem to
1504have stood in the way of his promotion to the bishopric.” It was a
1505little after this that he was appointed to the See of Poitiers, which
1506was the chief city of Poitou, but De Harlai, who by this time was
1507anything but a friend, succeeded in getting it immediately revoked; and
1508the next year the archbishop was again successful in his unworthy
1509maneuvers. The Bishop of Rochelle had been greatly impressed by the zeal
1510and gentle wisdom of the young missioner, and he now came to Paris,
1511without giving Fénelon any hint of his intention, to ask the king to
1512appoint him as Coadjutor Bishop of Rochelle. It would have been done but
1513for the insinuations of De Harlai that the attraction between the two
1514men was a mutual leaning to Jansenism, and as this was always a sore
1515point with Louis, he at once refused to make the appointment. Fénelon
1516might easily have refuted these assertions—for there was not a word of
1517truth in them, as his close friendship with Bossuet, Tronson, and
1518others, showed—but he did not take the trouble so to do. He was not
1519ambitious of dignities.
1520
1521Was his mission to Saintonge and Poitou a dark page in his history? We
1522can hardly look upon it in this light. It seems to us that he comes out
1523of it with considerable credit. Can we take it amiss in him that he was
1524a stanch adherent of the Roman Catholic Church, not only at this time,
1525but throughout all his life? Not if we are reasonable, and do not demand
1526miracles where there is no occasion for expecting them. Shall we
1527withhold our admiration from those who do not rise entirely superior to
1528all their surroundings, and see things as we, in totally different
1529conditions, see them? In that case, dealt with after so harsh a
1530judgment, we ourselves might come off badly, and we should most
1531certainly have to bar out from our favor a very large proportion of the
1532men who have done the most for the world’s advancement.
1533
1534It was about this same time that Sir Matthew Hale in England (he died in
15351676)—who was reckoned the best judge of his time, acute, learned,
1536sensible, setting himself strongly against bribery, one of the serious
1537vices of his age, a friend of Richard Baxter, an austere scholar,
1538leaning to the side of the Puritans—sentenced women to be executed for
1539witchcraft, and sent John Bunyan to jail for frequenting conventicles,
1540politely dismissing, without redress, his wife, who pleaded for his
1541discharge. And in our own time we have seen the Earl of Shaftesbury, who
1542did such wonderful things for the oppressed in some directions, most
1543bitter against the reformers in all other lines except his own, the
1544stanchest of Tories, and the most rigid of Churchmen, denouncing the
1545democratic principle as anti-Christian, and upholding the infamous
1546Conventicle Act, which forbade worship in a private house by more than
1547twenty persons. Similar inconsistencies can be pointed out in the record
1548of nearly all good men. What does it prove? Simply that it is given to
1549very few to rise much above the age in which they live, or to be at all
1550points independent of the impress placed upon them in their early years.
1551We see no reason to believe that Fénelon’s attitude toward the
1552Protestants of his day was other than an entirely sincere and
1553conscientious one, such as might be fairly looked for in a person of his
1554surroundings.
1555
1556It is possible to impute sinister and selfish motives to any, if one is
1557so disposed, but we see no benefit from this policy. It is not the way
1558we would wish to be treated ourselves. Almost every act of a man’s life
1559is susceptible of an evil construction, if sufficient pains is taken and
1560sufficient force applied. But we can not join with those who appear to
1561delight in pulling down from their pedestals all that have been lifted
1562above their fellows in goodness by the general suffrage of mankind.
1563Truth, of course, is to be sought at all costs. But it makes a vast
1564difference from what standpoint the facts are approached, whether with
1565suspicion and aversion, or cordial appreciation and comprehension. There
1566is often an underlying dislike to a certain type of character or to
1567certain sentiments and opinions, because of the wide difference between
1568them and those which the writer himself holds and practices, which makes
1569it impossible that he should see them in an unbiased light. We can not
1570escape the conclusion that Fénelon has been treated by some recent
1571writers in this manner, and we protest against its unfairness.
1572
1573It may be truthfully said that Fénelon, while doing faithfully what
1574appeared to him the duty of the hour on this mission, did not
1575particularly enjoy it. He had no love for life in the country or for the
1576work in which he was engaged. He longed for the quiet of his former
1577post, with its larger opportunities for study and reflection, and for
1578the time when he should be free to return to Paris. In a letter to
1579Bossuet he playfully threatens to bring suspicion of heresy upon himself
1580or “incur a lucky disgrace” that might give him excuse for his recall.
1581He was permitted, shortly after this, to go back to his place at the New
1582Catholics, where for some two years more he occupied himself in a quiet,
1583inconspicuous manner. Summing up the results of his controversial work
1584among the Huguenots, we are disposed to conclude, with one of his
1585biographers, that “if his moderation and humanity in an age in which
1586such qualities were not esteemed, were remembered against him when other
1587clouds were gathering, and contributed to his ultimate ruin, they add no
1588less grace to the record of his life, and must have deepened his
1589influence with those whose eyes were undimmed by prejudice and bigotry.”
1590
1591The most important period in the life of Fénelon was now to begin; that
1592for which the earlier years were but a preparation; that which would
1593color and dominate all his succeeding days. The time had come when the
1594little grandson of the king, the Duke of Burgundy, the hope of France
1595(for his father, the dauphin, was a failure, wholly incompetent to fill
1596any large place), should pass from the hands of nurses to masculine
1597rule. What could be of greater importance, considering how much was at
1598stake for the kingdom, than the proper selection of those who should
1599take this weighty charge? When the dauphin had been at a similar stage
1600of his education he was committed to the care of the Duke de Montausier
1601and Bossuet as the greatest and most celebrated men of their day. But
1602though they did their best, the course they took was not in all respects
1603well advised, and the results, at least, had not been satisfactory. This
1604would make the utmost care now all the more imperative. Happily the king
1605was fully alive to his responsibility, and, in addition to his own
1606penetration, had the benefit of good counsel in the matter. Madame de
1607Maintenon was now a power at court, and was using her influence in the
1608best directions. She was a warm friend of the Duke de Beauvilliers, who
1609also stood high in the good graces of Louis; for the monarch, in spite
1610of his own serious lapses from virtue, admired it in others, and knew
1611its importance with the young. The duke was accordingly made governor of
1612the royal grandchildren, Burgundy and his two younger brothers, with
1613unlimited power of nominating all the other officers about them and all
1614the inferior attendants. He had no hesitation as to the best preceptor
1615France could produce for the little prince, and immediately named
1616Fénelon, a choice which was loudly applauded by the public throughout
1617the kingdom. The people said that Louis the Great had once more outshone
1618all earlier monarchs, and shown himself wiser than Phillip of Macedon
1619when he appointed Aristotle tutor to his son. Bossuet was overjoyed at
1620the good fortune of Church and State, and regretted only that the
1621Marquis de Fénelon had not lived to see an elevation of the merit which
1622hid itself with so much care. It was a great surprise to the recipient,
1623who was leading his ordinary retired life, neither seeking nor expecting
1624court favor. It was a great gratification to his friends, who poured in
1625lavish congratulations. But M. Tronson, the wise old tutor from St.
1626Sulpice, wrote that his joy was mixed with fear, considering the perils
1627to which his favorite pupil would now be exposed. He says: “It opens the
1628door to earthly greatness, but you must fear lest it should close that
1629of the real greatness of heaven. You are thrown into a region where the
1630Gospel of Jesus Christ is little known, and where even those who know it
1631use their knowledge chiefly as a means to win human respect. If ever the
1632study and meditation of Holy Scripture were necessary to you, now indeed
1633they have become overwhelmingly indispensable. Above all, it is of
1634infinite importance that you never lose sight of the final hour of
1635death, when all this world’s glory will fade away like a dream, and
1636every earthly stay on which you may have leaned must fail.” This counsel
1637was most creditable to both tutor and pupil, showing a love stronger
1638than ordinary friendship. The post which seemed so dazzling and so
1639promising did indeed prove one of much danger as well as glory, but not
1640exactly in the way that the aged teacher anticipated.
1641
1642The Duke of Burgundy, now seven years old, was, in the most emphatic
1643sense, an _enfant terrible_. He was very different from his heavy,
1644stupid father, inheriting some of his qualities, it is said, from his
1645mother, Mary Anne of Bavaria, a delicate, melancholy, unattractive
1646princess, passionate, proud, and caustic. Burgundy was a frail,
1647unhealthy creature, whose body lacked symmetry as well as his mind. One
1648shoulder very early outgrew the other, defying the most cruel efforts of
1649the surgeons to set it right, and doing serious mischief to his general
1650health. His nervous system was much deranged, so that he was subject to
1651hurricanes of passion. The least contradiction made him furious. He
1652would fall into ungovernable fits of rage even against inanimate
1653objects. He had an insatiable appetite for all sorts of pleasure. His
1654pride and arrogance were indescribable. Mankind he looked upon as atoms
1655with whom he had nothing in common; his brothers were only intermediate
1656beings between him and the human race. He had a quick, penetrating mind,
1657and a marvelous memory. He was stiff against threats, on his guard
1658against flattery, amenable only to reason; but by no means always to
1659that. Often when it reasserted itself, after one of his tornadoes, he
1660was so much ashamed of himself that he fell into a new fit of rage. He
1661was, however, frank and truthful in the extreme.
1662
1663Such was the prince who—with his brothers, the Duke of Anjou, afterwards
1664Philip V of Spain, and the Duke of Berri—was committed entirely to the
1665care of Fénelon. When he accepted his new appointment he abandoned all
1666other offices and occupations, permitting himself no distractions even
1667of friendship, that he might concentrate all his powers of insight and
1668reflection upon his charges. Now, indeed, his studies of education would
1669be fully tested, and on the most conspicuous conceivable field his
1670theories must be reduced to practice. It is said that “he pursued only
1671one system, which was to have none.” In other words, he devoted his
1672fertile mind to meeting the necessities of the hour as they arose in his
1673volatile, chameleon-like pupil, instead of subjecting him to a
1674Procrustean system which could only have had the worst outcome. His
1675facile pen was employed without stint in the service of his pupil. Many
1676fables, some in French, some in Latin, full of poetry and grace, were
1677written to convey special lessons to the little duke. “Dialogues of the
1678Dead” also were composed for the same purpose, bringing in the principal
1679personages of antiquity to converse on such themes as would instruct in
1680regard to history and morals. And all this was but a preparation for
1681“Telemaque,” or Telemachus, composed for the instruction of the heir to
1682the throne, and endowed with such unfailing charm by the beauty of its
1683style and the admirable nature of its sentences, that it has been read
1684ever since in many nations and by many classes. The same mythology is
1685employed in it that was used by Homer and Virgil, but refined by the
1686knowledge of the Divine revelation and adorned by a tincture of
1687Christianity that runs easily through the whole narrative. The best
1688classical and moral maxims are placed before the mind of the reader,
1689animated with love and heightened with action. The author shows that the
1690glory of a prince is to govern men in such a way as to make them good
1691and happy; that his authority is never so firmly established as in the
1692love of his people; that the true riches and prosperity of a State
1693consists in taking away what ministers to general luxury, and in being
1694content with innocent and simple pleasures.
1695
1696But, as may well be supposed, it was not the intellectual means
1697alone—the text-books that were prepared, the treatises that were
1698written, the pains taken with instruction—which most awaken our
1699admiration, but rather the good sense shown in the various special
1700expedients that were employed as from time to time they were found
1701adapted to the needs of the case. Every effort was made to relieve study
1702from tedium. Lessons were abandoned whenever the prince wished to begin
1703a conversation from which he might derive useful information. There were
1704frequent intervals for exercise. Learning was turned into a pleasure.
1705The real struggle was with his fiery temperament, which had been
1706hitherto so badly mismanaged, and which could only be met by patience
1707and gentleness with firmness. When one of the evil moods seized him, it
1708was an understood thing in the household that every one should relapse
1709into an unwonted silence. Nobody spoke to him if they could help it; his
1710attendants waited upon him with averted eyes as though reluctant to
1711witness his degradation through passion. He was treated with the sort of
1712humiliating compassion which might be shown to a madman; his books and
1713appliances for study were put aside as useless to one in such a state,
1714and he was left to his own reflections. Such a course was the
1715destruction of self-complacency; he ceased to find relief in swearing
1716when his hearers ceased to be disconcerted by his abuse, and, being left
1717to consider the situation in solitude, he saw himself for the first time
1718as others saw him. Gradually this treatment would bring the passionate
1719but generous child to a better mind, and then, full of remorse and
1720penitence, he would come to throw himself with the fullest affection and
1721trust upon the never-failing patience and goodness of the preceptor,
1722whom he almost worshiped to his dying day.
1723
1724Fénelon had studied childhood, and knew how deeply rooted is the child’s
1725fear of ridicule; in the prince it was exaggerated by his abnormal
1726vanity, and a system which showed him how he degraded himself, and lost
1727all shadow of dignity when he lost his self-control, was the surest to
1728produce a radical reform. There are still in existence two pledges of
1729his childish repentance, testifying to the difficulty with which his
1730faults were conquered. “I promise, on my word as a prince to M. l’Abbé
1731de Fénelon, that I will do at once whatever he bids me, and will obey
1732him instantly in what he forbids; and if I break my word I will accept
1733any kind of punishment and disgrace. Given at Versailles, November 29,
17341689. Louis.” This promise, in spite of the word of a prince, was
1735probably broken; for many months later he enters on another engagement
1736pathetic in its brevity: “Louis, who promises afresh to keep his promise
1737better. This 20th of September, I beseech M. de Fénelon to take it
1738again.” He was at this time but eight years old. The child loved his
1739teacher passionately, and it was seldom that he did not yield speedily
1740to Fénelon’s wise and loving discipline.
1741
1742Once, however, there was a serious scene between them which appears to
1743have had a lasting influence upon the prince. Fénelon had been obliged
1744to reprove him with more than usual severity, and the boy, in his angry
1745pride, had resisted, exclaiming, “No, no, sir; I remember who I am, and
1746who you are.” It was impossible to pass over such a speech and maintain
1747authority; but acting upon his own maxim, never to administer reproof
1748while either actor concerned is excited, Fénelon made no reply, and for
1749the remainder of the day preserved a total silence toward his pupil, who
1750could not fail to perceive by his manner that the usually indulgent
1751master was much displeased. Night came with no explanation. But the next
1752morning, as soon as the prince was awake, the abbé came into his room,
1753and, addressing him in a grave, ceremonious manner, very unlike the
1754usual easy tone of their intercourse, said: “I do not know, Monsieur,
1755whether you remember what you said to me yesterday, that you knew what
1756you are and what I am; but it is my duty to teach you your ignorance
1757alike of both. You fancy yourself a greater personage than I—some of
1758your servants may have told you so; but since you oblige me to do it I
1759must tell you without hesitation that I am greater than you. You must
1760see at once that there can be no question of birth in the matter. It is
1761one of personal merit. You can have no doubt that I am your superior in
1762understanding and knowledge; you know nothing but what I have taught
1763you, and that is a mere shadow compared with what you have yet to learn.
1764As to authority, you have none over me, whereas I, on the other hand,
1765have full and entire authority over you, as the king has often told you.
1766Perhaps you imagine that I think myself fortunate in holding the office
1767I fill about yourself; but there again you are mistaken. I undertook it
1768only to obey the king, and in no way for the irksome privilege of being
1769your preceptor. And to convince you of this truth I am now going to take
1770you to His Majesty and beg of him to appoint some one else whose care of
1771you will, I hope, be more successful than mine.” This was no idle
1772threat; for Fénelon had always been determined to resign the tutorship
1773as soon as he felt himself to be failing in it; and the prince was
1774obliged to weigh his pride against his love. His love proved the
1775greater; for life had been very different with him since Fénelon came
1776into it, and no sacrifice of his vanity was too galling if he might
1777cancel his offense and keep his friend. Moreover, he was sensitive to
1778the last degree to public opinion and the faintest shadow of disgrace.
1779What would the world think of a prince who was so hopelessly naughty
1780that a man so universally admired and respected was forced to give him
1781up, and what would become of the poor little boy to whom his nearest
1782relatives were, after all, only “His Majesty” and “Monseigneur,” if the
1783dear, kind preceptor, who loved him and devoted himself so entirely to
1784him, were to go away? Poor Louis! The storm broke out anew; but this
1785time it was of penitence and shame and regret, while with passionate
1786sobs and tears he cried out: “O Monsieur, I am so sorry for what I did
1787yesterday. If you tell the king he will not care for me any more; and
1788what will people think if you leave me? I promise, O I promise ever so
1789much, that you shall not have to complain of me if only you will promise
1790not to go.” But Fénelon would promise nothing—the lesson would be lost
1791if it were not sharp—and for a whole day he allowed the duke to undergo
1792the pangs of anxiety and uncertainty. But at last, when his repentance
1793seemed unlikely to be soon forgotten, Madame de Maintenon’s intercession
1794was admitted, and the preceptor consented to remain.
1795
1796At a much later date Fénelon, writing about these days to a friend, said
1797of the prince: “He was sincere and ingenuous to a degree that one only
1798needed to question him in order to know whatever he had done wrong. One
1799day, when he was very much out of temper, he tried to conceal some act
1800of disobedience, and I urged him to tell the truth, remembering that we
1801were in God’s sight. Then he threw himself into a great passion, and
1802said, ‘Why do you put it in that way? Well, then, since you ask it so, I
1803can not deny that I did that,’ whatever it was. He was beside himself
1804with anger, but still his sense of religious duty was so strong that it
1805drew forth the most humiliating acknowledgments. I never corrected him
1806save where it was really necessary, and then with great caution. The
1807moment his passion was over he would come back to me, and confess
1808himself to blame, so that we had to console him; and he was really
1809grateful to those who corrected him. He used sometimes to say to me,
1810‘Now I shall leave the Duke of Burgundy behind the door, and be only
1811little Louis with you.’ This was when he was nine years old. Directly he
1812saw me doing any work for him he wanted to do the same, and would set to
1813on his own account. Except in his moments of passion I never knew him
1814influenced save by the most straightforward principles and most strictly
1815in accordance with the teachings of the Gospel. He was kind and gracious
1816to all who had a claim upon him; but he reserved his confidence wholly
1817for such as he believed to be religious people, and they could tell him
1818nothing about his faults which he did not acknowledge with gratitude. I
1819never saw any one whom I should less have feared to displease by telling
1820him the harshest truths concerning himself. I have proved that by some
1821wonderful experiences.”
1822
1823It will be somewhat seen, we trust, from all this, how great was the
1824care and skill expended by Fénelon on his most responsible and difficult
1825task, and how near an approach he made to imparting a model education to
1826his pupil. To his religious training, of course, as well as to that
1827which was more intellectual, the greatest attention was given. It had a
1828large place in the many conversations held and the many books put into
1829his hands, chief among which were the Sacred Scriptures. The law of
1830self-denial and self-restraint was continually inculcated, that one must
1831learn to imitate the Divine Master if one would fulfill the purpose for
1832which life was given. The early religious impressions thus imparted were
1833so deeply wrought that they influenced his whole after life. He was
1834prepared with greatest care for his first communion, taking it earnestly
1835and devoutly, and for the rest of his life he was a regular and faithful
1836communicant, receiving the sacrament with a recollection and humility of
1837bearing which struck all beholders. A total transformation was wrought
1838in the royal pupil under the training given, a transformation which
1839amazed all who were conversant with it. The Duke de Saint-Simon,
1840speaking of what a prodigy was wrought in a marvelously short space of
1841time, how the most terrible qualities were changed into all the opposite
1842virtues, says: “From the beast which I have described there arose a
1843prince affable, gentle, moderate, patient, modest, humble, austere but
1844only to himself, attentive to his duties and sensible of their great
1845extent. His only object appeared to be to perform all his actual duties
1846as son and subject, and to qualify himself for his future obligations.”
1847Madame de Maintenon, in one of her letters, gives the same testimony:
1848“We saw all those defects which alarmed us so much in the youth of the
1849Duke of Burgundy gradually disappear. Every year produced in him a
1850visible increase of virtue. So much had his piety changed him that, from
1851being the most passionate of men, he became mild, gentle, and complying;
1852persons would have thought that mildness was his natural disposition,
1853and that he was innately good.” So great was the alteration in his
1854character and conduct that, had he lived to ascend the throne, the whole
1855world, as well as France in particular, would have been immensely the
1856gainer. Hence the limitless devotion with which Fénelon gave five or six
1857years of his life at the height of his powers entirely to the royal
1858children and the routine of their schoolroom duties, was by no means a
1859poor use of his great gifts and attainments. These years are extremely
1860important, both in his own history and the history of his country.
1861
1862One other point deserves mention before we pass from this interesting
1863period of Fénelon’s life. In entering on his office he laid down to
1864himself a rule, to which he rigidly adhered, never to ask of the court a
1865favor for himself, his friends, or his family. The virtue of this stands
1866out the more when we consider how very rare in those days was
1867disinterestedness, and that men were none the less esteemed because they
1868strove to profit themselves and their families to the utmost in whatever
1869position they filled. It is, then, not a little remarkable and
1870creditable that Fénelon actually continued in a state closely
1871approaching destitution; his means were extremely straitened for more
1872than five years after entering upon his honorable and responsible
1873position at court. His private revenue was very small, nothing at all
1874coming to him at this time from Carenac, which he describes as
1875“hopelessly ruined.” No pecuniary income, one writer says, was attached
1876to his office; but this is hardly credible, and there are indications
1877that there was a salary, although, strangely enough, not an adequate
1878one. He kept a very small establishment, and it was with great
1879difficulty that he found means to meet his current expenses. Letters to
1880Madame de Laval, a daughter of his uncle, the marquis, and hence a
1881sister to him, who was his guide and counselor in money matters, show
1882this. He wrote to her, October, 1689, concerning the various economies
1883to which he was subjected, and the sale of his carriage and ponies.
1884Again, in March, 1691, he mentions having repaid one thousand francs out
1885of a debt of twelve hundred due Madame de Laval, and other sums to other
1886people. “I have made retrenchments,” he says, “which are very unusual in
1887my position; but justice comes before all other considerations. I still
1888owe a considerable sum to my bookseller, and I must buy some plate to
1889repay you for the things you have loaned me which are worn out.” He
1890speaks of getting his accounts into order that he may see his way in his
1891small economies and calculate how to go on. Again, in January, 1694, he
1892writes concerning a needy person whom he commends to Madame de Laval,
1893saying: “Although my necessities have never been so pressing as at
1894present, I beg you to take what is wanted for this man. I am tolerably
1895well, though very busy; but my purse is at the lowest ebb, through
1896delays in the payment of my salary, and the exceeding dearness of
1897everything this year. If I do not receive something shortly, I must
1898dismiss nearly all my servants. But I will not have you try to help me.
1899I would rather bear on. All the same, see that any money that can be
1900sent [from Carenac] reaches me after the more urgent alms have been
1901disbursed; for indeed I would rather live on dry bread than let any of
1902the poor of my benefice want.”
1903
1904This cousin became Fénelon’s sister actually, as well as in name, by her
1905second marriage with his eldest brother, the Compte de Fénelon; and
1906probably it never cost him more to refuse anything than when he refused
1907her request that he would obtain a valuable military post for her son, a
1908child four years old. But, while eager to do anything he deemed right to
1909please her, he steadily refused to make the application she desired. He
1910writes: “I can not relax the strict rule to which I feel it right in my
1911position to adhere. I would do anything on earth for you or your son
1912that I can, but not to save my life would I ask for anything from the
1913king.” Other letters that might be quoted speak the same language. It
1914was not till 1694 that the king seems to have remembered or discovered
1915how badly his grandsons’ preceptor was provided for. In that year, at
1916last, he gave Fénelon the Abbey of St. Valery, which sufficiently filled
1917his purse. The king informed him of this in person, and apologized for
1918so tardy an acknowledgment of his gratitude. And the year before, 1693,
1919he was chosen a member of the French Academy, a high distinction; his
1920reception speech was made March 31st of that year. It was at this time,
1921also, that he became a considerable factor in the management of the
1922celebrated community at St. Cyr, known as the ladies of St. Louis, who
1923were pledged to a devout and holy life. Madame de Maintenon had
1924originated the idea of this foundation, with the special object of
1925educating and training five hundred girls, daughters of the poorer
1926nobility. It occupied a large share of her thoughts. Fénelon was
1927associated with Bourdaloue, the Abbé Godet des Marais, subsequently
1928Bishop of Chartres, and other eminent ecclesiastics in its government.
1929
1930It was on February 4, 1695, that the king announced to Abbé de Fénelon
1931that he had nominated him Archbishop of Cambrai, one of the richest and
1932most important sees in the kingdom. He was taken entirely by surprise,
1933but at once replied, after expressing his thanks, that he could scarcely
1934rejoice in an appointment that would remove him from the preceptorship
1935to the princes. Whereupon Louis graciously answered that the abbé was
1936much too useful to be spared, and that his intention was that he should
1937retain both offices. Fénelon represented that the laws of the Church and
1938his own conscience made this impossible, as both required residence in
1939the diocese. But the king bore witness to his appreciation of Fénelon’s
1940services by overruling this difficulty, and replying, “No, no; the
1941canons only require nine months’ residence; you will spend three months
1942with my grandsons, and during the rest of the year you must superintend
1943their education from Cambrai just as you would at Versailles.” This
1944point settled, Fénelon went on to say that if he was indeed to accept
1945the archbishopric he must resign the Abbey of St. Valery, an act of
1946disinterestedness which Louis altogether refused to allow. But Fénelon
1947quietly persisted, pointing out to the king that the revenues of Cambrai
1948were such as to make it an infringement of canonical law to hold any
1949other preferment with it. Such conscientious indifference to his own
1950interest excited a great deal of astonishment and gossip at court. The
1951Bishop of Rheims remarked that it was all very well for M. de Fénelon,
1952thinking as he did, to act thus, but that thinking as _he_ did, it was
1953better for him to keep his revenues. The age was thoroughly accustomed
1954to this plurality of benefices. In the previous century John of Lorraine
1955was at one and the same time Archbishop of Lyons, Rheims, and Narbonne,
1956Bishop of Metz, Toul, Verdun, Theroneune, Lucon, Alby, and Valence, and
1957Abbot of Gortz, Fecamp, Clugny, and Marmontier. He was also made a
1958cardinal a year or two before attaining his majority. This was doubtless
1959an extreme case, but there were plenty somewhat similar. So that
1960Fénelon’s self-denying course meant a good deal more than it would at
1961the present day.
1962
1963He was consecrated archbishop June 10, 1695, in the chapel of St. Cyr,
1964in the presence of a distinguished throng, among whom were Madame de
1965Maintenon and his three royal pupils. Bossuet was chief consecrator, the
1966Bishop of Chalons being first assistant, and the Bishop of Amiens
1967second. Fénelon’s friends were delighted at this great advancement for
1968him; yet it was felt by many of them that he should have had the
1969Archbishopric of Paris, for already the popular voice had widely and
1970loudly nominated him. Some thought that he was sent to Cambrai by the
1971king for the express purpose of forestalling this clamor, and avoiding
1972any necessity for putting him in the more conspicuous and influential
1973place; for it was known that the post at Paris would soon be vacant,
1974and, if, at its vacancy, Fénelon had been still unplaced, the pressure
1975for his appointment there would have been very strong. As it was, M. de
1976Harlai died August 6, 1695, less than two months after Fénelon’s
1977consecration. M. de Noailles, Bishop of Chalons, through the influence
1978of Madame de Maintenon, was given the position.
1979
1980We have reached now what was, in a worldly point of view, the very
1981summit of Fénelon’s prosperity and glory. It might seem that, humanly
1982speaking, he had very little, if anything, left to wish for, although,
1983of course, the cardinalate might fairly have been expected in a few
1984years. But the clouds were already beginning to gather which were soon
1985to break over his head in a storm never to clear away, so far as court
1986favor and the good things of this world were concerned. So a new chapter
1987must be devoted to these new experiences which had so very much to do
1988both with his temporal and spiritual affairs.
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993                              CHAPTER IV.
1994                       MYSTICISM AND QUIETISM.[4]
1995
1996
1997In order that we may properly apprehend the next period in Fénelon’s
1998life it is absolutely essential for us to take a survey of the general
1999subject of Mysticism, for with that he became now very intimately
2000concerned. And, happily, it is a subject of perennial importance, having
2001no less close connection with the present day than with the centuries
2002past. Indeed the present age has in some respects very special need of
2003just this element. It is a commercial, materialistic, money-grabbing
2004age, devoted to the outward and the practical; it is a time when the
2005triumphs of machinery and invention and industrial progress are sounded
2006as never before—an extremely busy, bustling time of immense external
2007activity, when man hastens to get rich and rushes through life at
2008railroad speed, scarcely finding leisure so much as to eat, much less
2009for the quiet contemplation of the things of the spirit. And it is the
2010contemplative, interior, spirit-filled life with which Mysticism has
2011pre-eminently to do.
2012
2013The term, it is true, has come to be widely regarded with suspicion, and
2014used, more or less vaguely, as a word of reproach. With many, perhaps
2015with most, it carries an unpleasant, offensive suggestion. Its
2016associations in their minds are with that which is misty or recondite,
2017visionary and unintelligible; also with that which is fanatical,
2018extravagant, unreasonable, and somewhat dangerous. That there is some
2019ground for this impression can not be denied, because under the general
2020name of Mysticism much has been included, in the long sweep of the
2021centuries, which can not be admired or defended; much which does not
2022commend itself to that level-headed common sense according to whose
2023dictates we like to think that our religion can be and should be
2024squared. But we are persuaded that this extreme objectionable
2025development, or manifestation, of the Mystic spirit has been much less
2026frequent than is commonly supposed, and has no sufficient claim to be
2027identified with it in the public mind anywhere near as largely as it
2028usually is. There is a true Mysticism, and a false Mysticism. There are
2029Mystics every way worthy of highest honor, and there are those not at
2030all points deserving imitation. It surely is a mistake to lay the chief
2031stress on the latter, as is so frequently done, and thus to stamp a
2032stigma upon all. Christian Mysticism is something of which no one can
2033afford to be ignorant. The Church which neglects it or despises it,
2034whether through misapprehension or some less honorable cause, is certain
2035to be a large loser.
2036
2037What is Mysticism? As has been pointed out by several, it is something
2038which from its very nature is hardly susceptible of exact definition,
2039does not readily lend itself to the most precise forms of language. It
2040is a phase of thought or feeling which continually appears in connection
2041with the endeavor of the human mind to grasp the Divine essence, and to
2042enjoy the blessedness of actual communion with the Highest. It springs
2043inevitably from intense desire for intimate fellowship with God, from
2044the hottest possible pursuit of the highest ideals. It is a sort of name
2045for the realization of God as transfused throughout the universe, as
2046being immanent in material things and in mankind alike. The Century
2047Dictionary defines Mysticism as “any mode of thought or phase of
2048intellectual or religious life in which reliance is placed upon a
2049spiritual illumination believed to transcend the ordinary powers of
2050understanding.” The Standard Dictionary says that Mysticism is “the
2051doctrine and belief that man may attain to an immediate direct
2052consciousness or knowledge of God as the real and absolute principle of
2053all truth. The term is applied to a system of thought and life of which
2054the chief feature is an extreme development of meditative and intuitive
2055methods as distinguished from the definitive and scholastic.” Similarly
2056Dr. J. P. Lange, in the Schaff-Herzog Cyclopedia, says: “Mysticism has
2057been defined as belief in an immediate and continuous communication
2058between God and the soul which may be established by certain peculiar
2059religious exercises.... There is a mystic element in all true religion.”
2060Cousin says: “Mysticism is the belief that God may be known face to face
2061without anything intermediate. It is a yielding to the sentiment
2062awakened by the Infinite, and a summing up of all knowledge and all duty
2063in the contemplation and love of Him.” Nitzsch, in his “System of
2064Christian Doctrine,” declares “that the religious man, the man of faith,
2065is, as such, a Mystic; for he in whose consciousness God does not
2066appear, certainly does not feel God, nor can he know or honor Him; but
2067he who only thinks Him, without loving Him and becoming pure in heart,
2068can not know Him vitally; much less can he behold Him spiritually who
2069desires to see Him with the outward sense. The inner life of religion is
2070ever Mysticism.”
2071
2072This is why in all ages of the Church, when the outward has come to
2073usurp and absorb attention, when formalism and ceremonialism have
2074dominated the mind, when scholasticism has gained ascendency, and
2075especially when a corrupt looseness of morals has set in to degrade the
2076very ideals of humanity, there have been those who have arisen to make a
2077stand for a purer, more fervent, more spiritual type of piety. They have
2078met, of course, with bitter opposition; they have troubled those who did
2079not wish to be disturbed in their carnal indulgences or worldly
2080conformities, and they have had various uncomplimentary epithets thrown
2081at them: such as, Pietists, Quietists, Mystics, Puritans, Quakers, and
2082Methodists. They have been misrepresented in manifold ways. They have
2083been persecuted even unto the death. But they have been the salt of the
2084earth, and the succession has been kept up under one name or another
2085from the earliest days to the present. They have not always been endowed
2086with philosophic minds or skilled in the learning of the schools. They
2087have been keenly conscious of the difficulty, the impossibility, of
2088completely expressing, in imperfect human words, the deep things of God
2089revealed to them on the mounts of vision with which they have been
2090favored. They have struggled hard with the inadequacy of the only
2091language at their command, and have been driven to a liberal use of
2092figures of speech, some of them questionable in point of propriety. They
2093have had a cramped vocabulary, have made mistakes, have not found
2094themselves able to translate into intelligible terms all that was in
2095their minds. To mint the secrets of the interior life into the current
2096coin of language suited to the comprehension of common souls requires a
2097skill given to but few. And more especially have their expressions been
2098found unintelligible, or worse, by adversaries not qualified by any
2099experience to comprehend what it was all about. For, as St. Paul says (I
2100Cor. ii): “The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of
2101God; for they are foolishness unto him, and he can not know them,
2102because they are spiritually judged. We speak wisdom among the perfect,
2103God’s wisdom in a mystery, even a wisdom which hath been hidden, which
2104none of the rulers of this world knoweth. Which things also we speak,
2105not in words which man’s wisdom teacheth, but which the Spirit teacheth,
2106interpreting spiritual things to spiritual men.” The adversaries were
2107also eager in many cases to remove out of the way those who, by their
2108purity of life and their opposition to priestly claims and gains, were
2109esteemed dangerous to the peace of the Church. We are confident that in
2110the main this is a fair interpretation of the course which events have
2111taken. Not but what some of the Mystics have really laid themselves open
2112to the complaints of their enemies. They have been unguarded in their
2113language, have been so carried away with ecstasy, as some new precious
2114truth has burst upon them, that they have stated it too strongly; have
2115not supplied the limitations and modifications and exceptions which
2116would have been well, which were necessary for a complete rounding out
2117of the statement; have taken for granted that the other side had been
2118sufficiently emphasized before, and that their special mission to
2119emphasize the neglected point would be recognized; hence they have said
2120things which, by strict construction and taken in bald literalness, were
2121not precisely true. All this can be granted without casting any serious
2122reflection either on their character or their doctrines. Their books
2123must be read with caution and discrimination. To persons not well
2124balanced they might sometimes be a source of peril. But this admission
2125is in no way incompatible with the assertion that they have conferred a
2126very great benefit upon mankind, that their doctrines, on the whole, are
2127sound, and that this generation could ill afford to overlook the good to
2128be obtained by careful studies in this direction.
2129
2130The first Mystics were really St. John and St. Paul; and their words
2131have full justification in what they derived from their Divine Master.
2132Who more positively than the great Apostle to the Gentiles, “according
2133to the wisdom given unto him,” preached a gospel that was foolishness to
2134some, but which he continually called the wisdom and the mystery of God;
2135a gospel which proclaims the Divine indwelling, we in Him and He in us,
2136our bodies the temples of the Holy Ghost, believers being “in Christ”
2137and “members one of another?” He was a man caught up into Paradise, and
2138hearing unspeakable words which it was not lawful or possible for a man
2139to utter. “I die daily,” he said, “I have been crucified with Christ,
2140and it is no longer I that live, but Christ liveth in me;” “To me to
2141live is Christ;” “I have learned the secret, I can do all things in
2142Him;” “I fill up on my part that which is lacking of the afflictions of
2143Christ;” “Ye died, and your life is hid with Christ in God;” “In Him we
2144live, and move, and have our being;” “The Spirit Himself beareth witness
2145with our spirit,”—and many other such like things there be, left on
2146record from his pen to show clearly that he was a true Mystic. Still
2147more, perhaps, do the Mystics look to St. John for complete
2148authorization of their position. His Gospel is the spiritual Gospel, the
2149charter of Christian Mysticism. It is he who tells us, “God is love,”
2150“God is light,” “God is Spirit.” The Divine union which he sets before
2151us is of the closest kind. “Our fellowship is with the Father, and with
2152His Son Jesus Christ;” “Ye have an anointing from the Holy One, and ye
2153know all things;” “The anointing which ye received of Him abideth in
2154you, and ye need not that any teach you;” “Hereby we know that He
2155abideth in us, by the Spirit which He hath given us;” “He that believeth
2156on the Son of God hath the witness;” “He that dwelleth in love dwelleth
2157in God, and God in him,” etc. It is impossible to quote a tithe of the
2158words in John’s Epistles and Gospel which embody the fundamental ideas
2159of Mysticism. Especially do we find in the marvelous words of Jesus
2160reported by John alone, as by the one peculiarly fitted to formulate
2161them, in the thirteenth to the seventeenth chapters of his Gospel, the
2162seeds and roots of all which have been drawn forth by subsequent writers
2163on these profound themes.
2164
2165Plato has been called “the Father of European Mysticism.” Dr. Inge says:
2166“Both the great types of Mystics may appeal to him,—those who try to
2167rise through the visible to the invisible, through nature to God; and
2168those who look upon this earth as a place of banishment, upon material
2169things as a veil which hides God’s face from us, and who bid us seek
2170yonder in the realm of ideas the heart’s true home. Plato teaches that
2171the highest good is the greatest likeness to God; that the greatest
2172happiness is the vision of God; that we should seek holiness, not for
2173the sake of reward, but because it is the health of the soul, while vice
2174is its disease; that goodness is unity and harmony, while evil
2175disintegrates; that it is our duty to rise above the visible and
2176transitory to the invisible and permanent.”
2177
2178The Church has never lacked during its history for those who have
2179followed this line of thought and cultivated this kind of experience.
2180Clement of Alexandria has been called “the Founder of Christian
2181Mysticism,” a Neoplatonist among the Fathers; followed by Dionysius the
2182Areopagite, and a lengthy line of successors, large among whom looms the
2183noble Bernard of Clairvaux, the glory of the twelfth century. Without
2184tracing out the story in detail it will be enough for our purpose to
2185refer briefly to those who, in the few centuries before Fénelon, stood
2186forth most prominently as leaders in this realm of truth, and so
2187prepared the way for him.
2188
2189In the fourteenth century we find a most remarkable band of devout
2190believers who called themselves “Friends of God,” to signify that they
2191had reached that stage of Christian life when Christ, according to His
2192promise, would call them “no longer servants but friends.” They were
2193composed of persons from all classes of society, and from all the
2194religious orders. Most prominent among these were Master Eckhart—styled
2195“Doctor Ecstaticus”—vicar-general of the Dominican order, a man of
2196uncommon purity of life and great excellence of character, one of the
2197profound thinkers of the Middle Ages; Henry Suso, who has been called
2198“the Minnesinger of Divine Love,” and who was wont to say, “A man of
2199true self-abandonment must be _un_built from the creature, _in_built
2200with Christ, and _over_built into the Godhead” (he was prior of the
2201Dominican convent at Ulm, where he died in 1365); Nicholas of Basle; and
2202John Tauler. Nicholas was a layman who wielded a powerful pen and was
2203also a great preacher; thoroughly devoted to religion from his earliest
2204days. He traveled much through Germany, propagating his opinions in a
2205quiet, unostentatious manner, and gradually there grew up around him a
2206society of Christians composed of men and women likeminded with himself,
2207who loved to honor him as their spiritual father. It seems to have been
2208largely his personal influence which held them together, for they fell
2209to pieces after he was burned at the stake for heresy, near Poitiers,
2210about 1382.
2211
2212John Tauler—“Doctor Illuminatus”—born at Strasburg, 1290, and dying
2213there in 1361, was still more distinguished, although indebted to
2214Nicholas for being led out into the light. This took place when he was
2215over fifty years of age. Nicholas, coming to Strasburg to hear the
2216famous preacher, speedily detected his deficiency in spiritual
2217experience, and the lack of true power attending the Word on this
2218account. With rare humility, Tauler, a learned theologian, received this
2219rebuke from the uneducated layman, and so profited by it that he was
2220able, though not without long struggle, to enter into complete freedom.
2221Then he preached in a very different manner, and the first time he
2222opened his mouth in public fourteen persons fell as if dead under the
2223Word, and nearly thirty others were so deeply moved that they remained
2224sitting in the churchyard long after the congregation was dismissed,
2225unwilling to move away. For eighteen years after this second conversion
2226he made great progress in the divine life, rising to a place of highest
2227esteem with his brethren, and being rightly reckoned among the chief of
2228God’s children on earth.
2229
2230Properly to be counted among these Friends of God can be set down the
2231unknown author of “Deutsche Theologie,” or “Theologia Germanica,” which
2232contained so much truth that it had the distinguished honor of being put
2233upon the Romish Index of prohibited works. Luther ascribed it to Tauler.
2234It is in his style, and contains his sentiments; but it is now
2235considered more probable that it originated a little later than his
2236time, and was written by some other member of the band. It was their
2237usual practice to conceal their names as much as possible when they
2238wrote, lest a desire for fame should mingle in their endeavors to be
2239useful. Luther placed it next to the Bible and St. Augustine as a source
2240of knowledge concerning God and Christ and man. Baron Bunsen ranks it
2241still higher. And many others have expressed their supreme indebtedness
2242to it for help in respect to the perfect life. It has continued up to
2243the present day to be the favorite handbook of devotion in Germany.
2244
2245Concerning the views and doctrines of these Friends of God, although
2246some of their expressions and opinions may be objected to, considering
2247the corrupt age in which they lived they must be pronounced worthy of
2248high praise. They insisted, first of all, on the uttermost
2249self-renunciation, yet they avoided the system of penances and
2250austerities common in the monasteries. Neither idle contemplation nor
2251passive asceticism found favor with them; they were evangelical and
2252practical, full of good works and the imitation of Christ both in
2253patient suffering and active usefulness. They were animated by an
2254exalted reformatory spirit which threw them out of touch with the
2255ecclesiastics around them. Though they did not in all cases fall under
2256the ban of the Church, they may still be regarded as forerunners of the
2257Reformation. Their Mysticism was a powerful protest against the terrible
2258corruptions of the Romish Church and the cold, barren speculations of
2259scholasticism. They craved and secured direct communion with God,
2260unrestricted by human interposition; an immediate vision of the
2261Almighty, undimmed by any separating veil and unchanged by any
2262distorting medium. The highest form of the Divine life in a man seemed
2263to them to be perfect resignation to the will of God, and they counted
2264prayer to be the best means of bringing about this state of resignation.
2265“To pray for a change in one’s circumstances,” they said, “is to pray
2266that what God sends may be made subject to us, not that we should submit
2267ourselves to it; and so tends to produce self-assertion, not
2268self-renunciation.” Nicholas taught that “when self-renunciation is
2269complete, the soul of man, having become entirely resigned to the Divine
2270will, becomes so entirely assimilated to the Divine nature that it has
2271continually a near fellowship with God; he is always in familiar
2272intercourse with the Spirit of God, who communicates to him all Divine
2273knowledge.” “All things to the beloved are of God; all, therefore, are
2274indifferent.” That religion which sprang from fear of punishment or hope
2275of reward they counted of little worth, and considered love to be by far
2276the highest state, the only one truly worthy of the Christian.[5] Their
2277union with Deity was not that of pantheism but of passionate love, and
2278great prominence was given to the will as the mainspring on which all
2279developments of the higher life depend.
2280
2281The following quotations from “Theologia Germanica” will convey in a few
2282words what may be called the root ideas of the book and of the men whose
2283spirit it so well embodies:
2284
2285“A true lover of God loveth Him alike in having and in not having, in
2286sweetness and in bitterness, in good or evil report; for he seeketh only
2287the honor of God, and not his own, either in spiritual or natural
2288things. Therefore he standeth alike unshaken in all things.”
2289
2290“All disobedience is contrary to God, and nothing else. In truth, no
2291thing is contrary to God; no creature, nor creature’s work, nor anything
2292that we can name or think of, is contrary to God or displeasing to Him,
2293but only disobedience and the disobedient man. In short, all that is, is
2294well-pleasing and good in God’s eyes, saving only the disobedient man.”
2295
2296“The man who is truly godlike complaineth of nothing but of sin only.
2297And sin is simply to desire or will anything otherwise than the one
2298perfect good and the one eternal will, or to wish to have a will of
2299one’s own.”
2300
2301“Sin is to will, desire, or love otherwise than God doth. Things do not
2302thus will, desire, or love: therefore things are not evil; all things
2303are good.”
2304
2305“He who is truly a virtuous man would not cease to be so to gain the
2306whole world; yea, he would rather die a miserable death. To him virtue
2307is its own reward, and he is content therewith, and would take no
2308treasure or riches in exchange for it.”
2309
2310“Union with God is brought to pass in three ways; to wit, by pureness
2311and singleness of heart, by love, and by the contemplation of God.”
2312
2313A still greater name among the Mystic writers, coming a bit later than
2314those already mentioned, is that of Thomas à Kempis, born near Cologne,
2315in this same West Germany where the Friends of God flourished, in 1386,
2316and dying about 1470. His “Imitation of Christ” stands easily at the
2317head of its class, first in popularity and usefulness among manuals for
2318devotion. “The epic poem of the inner life,” it has lent the fragrance
2319of its sanctity to every language of the civilized world, and has been a
2320prime favorite for nearly five hundred years with all those who have
2321made largest advancement in holy things. Only a few extracts need be
2322given to show how closely it is in line with what has already been said,
2323and what remains to be said, concerning the topic of our chapter:
2324
2325“When a man is so far advanced in the Christian life as not to seek
2326consolation from any created thing, then does he first begin perfectly
2327to enjoy God; his heart is wholly fixed and established in God who is
2328his All in All.”
2329
2330“There is no other occasion of perplexity and disquiet but an unsubdued
2331will and unmortified affections.”
2332
2333“Self-denial is the test of spiritual perfection, and he that truly
2334denies himself is arrived at a state of great freedom and safety. It is
2335no small advantage to suppress desire, even in inconsiderable
2336gratifications. Restless and inordinate desires are the ground of every
2337temptation.”
2338
2339“Abandon all, and thou shalt possess all; relinquish desire, and thou
2340shalt find rest.”
2341
2342“No evil is permitted to befall thee but what may be made productive of
2343a much greater good. Receive all with thankfulness, as from the hand of
2344God, and esteem it great gain.”
2345
2346“For all that befalleth me I will thank the Love that prompts the gift,
2347and reverence the Hand that confers it.”
2348
2349“O Lord God, holy Father, be Thou blessed now and forever! For whatever
2350Thou willest is done, and all that Thou willest is good.”
2351
2352“The righteous should never be moved by whatever befalls him, knowing
2353that it comes from the hands of God, and is to promote the important
2354business of our redemption. Without God, nothing is done upon the face
2355of the earth.”
2356
2357“Perfection consists in offering up thyself, with thy whole heart, to
2358the will of God; never seeking thine own will either in small or great
2359respects; but with an equal mind weighing all events in the balance of
2360the sanctuary, and receiving both prosperity and adversity with equal
2361thanksgiving.”
2362
2363“All is vanity but the love of God and a life devoted to His will.”
2364
2365Passing over St. Theresa and St. John of the Cross[6]—particulars about
2366whom may be found in Vaughan—and denying ourselves, through limitations
2367of space, all quotations from Rodriguez and Scupoli,[7] who flourished
2368in the sixteenth century, and wrote divinely about Divine things,
2369leaving the world heroic examples of holiness,—we come to St. Francis of
2370Sales and Molinos, both of whom had close connection with Fénelon,
2371although in different ways. Francis—born in 1567 and departing to glory
2372in 1622, who has been called “the noblest, tenderest and most devoted
2373Mystic of the Catholic Church after the Reformation”—more than any
2374other, was Fénelon’s teacher in matters pertaining to the inner life,
2375even as Scupoli had been the teacher of Francis. Fénelon never wearies
2376of recommending to the correspondents whom he is instructing in
2377spiritual things the perusal of the works of this delightful and
2378inspiring writer. He says to one: “You can read nothing better than St.
2379Francis of Sales. Everything he writes is full of comfort and love;
2380although his whole tone is that of self-mortification, it is all deep
2381experience, simple precautions, high feeling, and the light of grace.
2382You will have made a great step when you are familiar with such mental
2383food.” Upon another he urges “a half hour spent in meditative reading of
2384the Gospels in the morning, and an evening portion of St. Francis de
2385Sales.” To the Elector of Cologne, when about to receive episcopal
2386consecration, he says, “Read the Life and Works of St. Francis de
2387Sales.” We do not wonder at these counsels. The two men, the two
2388Francises, were entirely congenial, marvelously alike in heart and head,
2389with similar vivacity, urbanity, and grace of manner, polish of style,
2390profundity of insight into the soul, and practical knowledge of the
2391world. Both had high rank in State and Church, strong intellects,
2392intense devotion to God, and ability to express truth in a simple,
2393lucid, attractive way. They were alike in that the profound piety they
2394taught was not, as in the previous age, reserved for the cloister, but
2395was quite compatible with mingling in the world, requiring no great
2396change of habits, but an entire change of motive. Even the life at court
2397might be continued and graced with cheerful obedience to the whole will
2398of God; all the actions of the day could be sanctified by a perpetual
2399prayer offered up in their midst and by a sincere intention to please
2400God; the humble every-day virtues were extolled, and no austerities
2401recommended. Thus religion was made commensurate with the whole of life,
2402and the saint could join in all that others did, except sin. No
2403difference can be found in their doctrines, or even their forms of
2404expression, and it seems like an irony of fate that the Bishop of Geneva
2405should be canonized in 1665 by the same Church which condemned, in 1699,
2406the Archbishop of Cambrai. The fictitious and factitious reasons that
2407led to the latter will be detailed a little later.
2408
2409Part of the reason is connected with the history and fate of Miguel de
2410Molinos, commonly esteemed to be the founder of the Quietists. He was a
2411Spanish theologian, born of noble parentage near Saragossa, December 21,
24121627. He acquired a great reputation at Rome and elsewhere for purity of
2413life and vigor of intellect, but steadily refused all ecclesiastical
2414preferment. In 1675 he published his “Spiritual Guide,” which in a few
2415years passed through twenty editions in different languages, and was
2416warmly hailed by people of marked piety in many lands. But it was soon
2417bitterly attacked, especially by the Jesuits, who quickly perceived that
2418Molinos’ system tacitly accused the Romish Church of a departure from
2419the true religion, and that his whole doctrine would militate against
2420the power of the priesthood and the importance of ceremonialism.
2421Although he had a vast number of friends, some of them eminent for
2422learning and piety, and even high in worldly rank, and though the
2423pontiff himself, Innocent XI, was partial to him, he was, in 1685, cited
2424before the Inquisition and subjected to close examination as well as
2425rigid imprisonment. It is said that as many as twenty thousand letters
2426were found in his house, which, if true, shows the degree to which the
2427movement he headed had spread, and the hunger of great multitudes for
2428spiritual food. His trial lasted two years, and in 1687 sixty-eight
2429propositions, purporting to be extracted from his book, were condemned,
2430and he was declared to have taught false and dangerous dogmas contrary
2431to the doctrine of the Church. He was compelled to pass the remainder of
2432his life in the dungeons of the Inquisition, where he died, after many
2433years of close confinement, in which he exhibited the greatest humility
2434and peace of mind.
2435
2436The principles of his book have been much misunderstood and
2437misrepresented. The following statement is believed to be substantially
2438correct. He taught that Christian perfection consists in the peace of
2439the soul, springing from a complete self-surrender into the hands of
2440God, in the renouncement of all external, temporal things, and in the
2441pure love of God free from all considerations of interest or hope of
2442reward. A soul which desires the supreme good must renounce all sensual
2443and material things, silence every impulse, and concentrate itself on
2444God. In a state of perfect contemplation the soul desires absolutely
2445nothing, not even its own salvation; it fears nothing, not even hell;
2446the one only feeling of which it is conscious is utter abandonment to
2447God’s good will and pleasure; it is indifferent to all else; and nothing
2448which does not reach the will, where alone virtue resides, can really
2449pollute the soul. The system was termed Quietism, because it laid so
2450much stress upon inward quiet, passive contemplation, and silent prayer;
2451also upon freedom from hope and fear, the great agitators of the human
2452mind.
2453
2454It is a very vulgar error to suppose that the Mystics taught abstention
2455from good works, or outward inactivity; for none were busier in blessing
2456their fellow-men, as the twenty thousand letters above mentioned might
2457indicate, as well as the ceaseless endeavors in this direction put forth
2458by Madame Guyon, Fénelon, and the rest. Mystics are not impracticable
2459dreamers; they have been in a very marked degree energetic and
2460influential. Their passivity simply meant a calm yet glad acceptance of
2461all God’s dispensations. They were also abundantly active in the highest
2462sense, since the old faculties were transformed and uplifted and no
2463longer shackled by the cramping chains of sin, but enabled to do far
2464more for the good of mankind and the glory of God in their happy,
2465healthy working than they ever had done before. They laid great stress
2466upon faith, rather than rites or austerities, as a means of
2467justification and sanctification, a peculiarity which seems at the
2468bottom of the remark of the Romish ecclesiastic who wrote, under date of
2469July 10, 1685, “I am informed that a Jesuit named Molinos has been put
2470into the Inquisition at Rome, accused of wishing to become chief of a
2471new sect called Quietists, whose principles are somewhat similar to
2472those of the Puritans in England.” There is sufficient similarity
2473between the Quietism of the seventeenth century and the Pietism and
2474Methodism of Germany and England in the eighteenth century to give us a
2475friendly feeling toward it. That the former was not so well guarded as
2476the latter; was less directed to practical ends; was not in control of
2477such cool, sensible minds; ran very easily into abuses; had stronger
2478pantheistic leanings; was more open to the objection that it taught a
2479strained, impossible perfection utterly out of reach of all but the few,
2480and attainable by those few perhaps only under very favorable
2481conditions,—may be freely granted. But it does not, and need not,
2482prevent our sympathies going out strongly toward those who, in that
2483earlier day and amid much difficulty, struck out the high path on lines
2484not essentially at variance with those who, in easier times of greater
2485enlightenment, came after them. The Mystics, with all their
2486extravagances, possessed more of the truth of God than could be found
2487elsewhere within the wide domains of the Roman Church. The Reformers
2488recognized this, and sympathized far more deeply with them than with the
2489schoolmen.
2490
2491It should be said, also, that the Quietists vehemently repudiated the
2492constructions put upon their writings by their enemies, and the evil
2493inferences which were drawn from them. They protested against what
2494others professed to find there as being no part of their real belief. It
2495seems to us that they have a perfect right to be heard in explanation of
2496their tenets, and much allowance must be made for those endeavoring to
2497find expressions that would convey such profound and lofty thoughts.
2498Professor George P. Fisher, in his “History of the Christian Church,”
2499says, “The real ground of hostility to Quietism was its tendency to lead
2500to the dispensing with auricular confession and penances and outward
2501rites altogether.”
2502
2503It will be sufficiently evident from what has been now written that
2504there is Mysticism _and_ Mysticism; and that that which has the best
2505right to the name lies very close to the most essential truth of the
2506best religion, inseparable from it so far as it is to answer the deepest
2507yearnings of the human heart. If religion is not to be made wholly
2508objective, reduced to a round of external performances, accounted
2509synonymous with philanthropy and morality; if its subjective side is to
2510have proper recognition as the controlling one; if being is to take rank
2511above doing, as we firmly believe it should,—then we are all Mystics in
2512the true sense of the word. Since we have to do with “the love of Christ
2513which passeth knowledge,” and which must be known by some higher faculty
2514than the understanding; since the new birth is fitly compared by the
2515Master to the mysterious coming and going of the winds of heaven, and
2516can not be completely comprehended by the human reason; since the method
2517of God with the soul of man passes all metes and bounds of man’s finite
2518mind, and the operations of the Holy Spirit can not be wholly fathomed
2519by cold intellect,—Mysticism has extremely close relations with all
2520parts of supernaturalism. It is grounded in a profounder philosophy than
2521those can offer who assume to scout and scorn it. We as Methodists,
2522especially, believe firmly in feeling, and in a first-hand knowledge of
2523God as the privilege of each genuine believer. We hold fast to
2524experience as having rights which logic and dogma must respect; we have
2525exalted life above theory, and the vision divine above dead orthodoxy;
2526we maintain that there is a God-consciousness, as well as a
2527self-consciousness and a world-consciousness; and that spiritual facts
2528can be, and should be, verified in personal experience. We count the
2529words of Pascal divinely true: “The things of this world must be known
2530in order to be loved; but the things of God must be loved in order to be
2531known.”
2532
2533“Mysticism,” says Professor J. E. Latimer, “has ever been a reaction
2534from formalism and dogmatism in religion. When Christian men have been
2535relying upon the letter, the Mystic has always exalted the spirit. When
2536the Church has been content with mere dogmatic statement and
2537intellectual orthodoxy, a Mystic revival has come to rehabilitate its
2538spiritual life, and sends new streams of power along its arid channel.”
2539Do we not greatly need this revival now? We do not believe there is any
2540special danger to-day from one-sided subjectivity and morbid
2541introspection. The peril is altogether the other way. Our great want is
2542a profounder apprehension of the basal truths of the spiritual life, and
2543their practical translation into individual experience. The knowledge of
2544God is widespread, but it is superficial. Piety is very bustling, but it
2545is not deep. The utterances of the Savior and His apostles are taken at
2546a large discount, and the mass of believers are easily content with a
2547low condition of spirituality. Hence the Church is feeble, and fails to
2548impress itself strongly upon the world. It would be immensely benefited
2549by a large infusion of the spirit of the true Mystic, who wages the most
2550deadly war with all carnality; who has a terrible moral intensity; who
2551renounces absolutely all that dims the radiance or shadows the image of
2552the Perfect One in the mirror of the soul; who is determined, so far as
2553in him lies, to bridge the gulf that separates him from his Maker and
2554make the closest possible approach to God. Of Rabbi Gamaliel, a genuine
2555Mystic, it is reported that he prayed, “O Lord, grant that I may do Thy
2556will as if it were my will, and that Thou mayest do my will as if it
2557were Thy will.” Charles Wesley, another Mystic, is very bold and says,
2558
2559  “Let all I am in Thee be lost,
2560  Let all I am be God.”
2561
2562Why should it be thought a thing incredible with any that man may become
2563a partaker of the Divine nature? If to a small extent, why not, when all
2564the conditions are favorable, to a very large extent? Why should not the
2565Church in general, and the Methodist Church in particular, get a new
2566grip on this much neglected but every way fruitful truth of the Divine
2567indwelling and the Divine immanence, God in all and all in God, the
2568universe but the will of God expressed in forms of time and space,
2569humanity reaching its highest point of development when it most
2570completely entemples Deity, nature a symbol of God, God revealed in His
2571works? Just so far as this shall be accomplished will the Church swing
2572out into a wealthy place, and march forward to large conquest. Complete
2573surrender will be the prelude to complete possession, and complete
2574possession will straightway be turned into complete victory over every
2575foe.
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580                               CHAPTER V.
2581                          THE GREAT CONFLICT.
2582
2583
2584We come now to the central period of Fénelon’s career, that wherein he
2585put forth his greatest mental exertion, fighting, as it were, for his
2586very life, and for that truth which he held much dearer than life. It is
2587a period which every sketch of him, however brief, touches upon, and
2588which we must set forth at some length. The last chapter, on Mysticism
2589and Quietism, will have prepared us to consider somewhat sympathetically
2590the career of Madame Guyon, who was so closely linked with Fénelon
2591during these few years, and who was the chief exponent of the Quietist
2592or Mystic beliefs at this time in France. She was born, as Jeanne Marie
2593Bouvier de la Mothe, April 13, 1648, at Montargis, about fifty miles
2594south of Paris, and wedded before she was sixteen, by the arrangement of
2595her parents, to a man of thirty-eight, M. Jacques Guyon, who was very
2596wealthy. She had an unhappy married life, closed by the death of her
2597husband when she was twenty-eight. She had five children, two of whom
2598died in infancy. Suffering was her portion, and religion her
2599consolation, through all her days. When not yet thirteen she read with
2600eagerness the Life of Madame Chantal, Kempis’ “Imitation of Christ,” and
2601the works of Francis of Sales, making a vow at this time to aim at the
2602highest perfection and to do the will of God in everything. Later, when
2603seventeen, this determination was renewed with fuller purpose and
2604intelligence; yet it was not till she was twenty, so limited were her
2605privileges of instruction, that her heart became thoroughly changed, the
2606pleasures of the world put definitely aside, and her life devoted
2607entirely to God. Her education, in a convent, was quite defective, but
2608her natural abilities were very great. She had remarkable powers of
2609conversation, her intellect was keen, her ascendency over other minds,
2610even some of the greatest, in after years was very striking. She learned
2611Latin subsequently, that she might carry on her studies more profoundly.
2612She prepared extensive commentaries on the Scriptures, and her writings,
2613in their collective form, were issued in forty volumes. Afflictions many
2614were used by the Lord to chasten her spirit and deepen her experience.
2615She lost her mother and father, lost a dearly beloved son and darling
2616daughter, lost her beauty by the scourge of smallpox at the age of
2617twenty-two, lost her dearest friend and religious confidante, Genevieve
2618Granger, prioress of the Benedictines, in 1673, and then her husband in
26191676.
2620
2621It was July 22, 1672, that she gave herself to the Lord afresh, with
2622larger comprehension and consecration, without reservation of purpose or
2623time, in the most solemn manner, signing and sealing the following
2624covenant: “I henceforth take Jesus Christ to be mine. I promise to
2625receive Him as a husband to me, and I give myself to Him, unworthy
2626though I am, to be His spouse. I ask of Him, in this marriage of spirit
2627with spirit, that I may be of the same mind with Him—meek, pure, nothing
2628in myself, and united in God’s will; and, pledged as I am to be His, I
2629accept as a part of my marriage portion, the temptations and sorrows,
2630the crosses and the contempts, which fell to Him.” This sacred covenant
2631of the spiritual marriage with her Redeemer, she carefully renewed and
2632reviewed on its anniversary. Especially noticeable was the renewal in
26331681, for it took place in Annecy, at the tomb of St. Francis of Sales,
2634who, more than any other human being, was her master in spiritual
2635things, as he has been to hundreds of thousands more. When left a widow
2636with large property interests, she first settled up the affairs of the
2637extensive estate with much skill, without assistance from any one, did
2638much in charity for those around her, looked after her children, and
2639then gradually felt her way to what was to be her life-work in the
2640world. Her spiritual experience all the while was advancing; she was
2641sinking more thoroughly out of self into God. July 22, 1680, was a
2642specially memorable epoch with her, when she began to count the life of
2643nature as fully slain within, when her soul seemed to be delivered from
2644all its chains, and set wholly at liberty, in a way not known before.
2645She says, “I had a deep peace; a peace which seemed to pervade the whole
2646soul; a peace which resulted from the fact that all my desires were
2647fulfilled in God. I desired nothing; feared nothing; willed nothing. I
2648feared nothing; that is to say, I feared nothing considered in its
2649ultimate results and relations, because my strong faith placed God at
2650the head of all perplexities and all events. I desired nothing but what
2651I now have, because I had a full belief that in my present state of mind
2652the results of each moment, considered in relation to myself,
2653constituted the fulfillment of the Divine purposes. I willed nothing;
2654meaning in this statement that I had no will of my own. As a sanctified
2655heart is always in harmony with the Divine providences, I had no will
2656but the Divine will, of which such providences are the true and
2657appropriate expression.”
2658
2659This extract expresses as well, perhaps, as anything can, the
2660mainsprings of her personal feeling and the chief substance of her
2661teaching. She always beheld the hand of God in all things, recognized
2662practically that God orders and provides every allotment in life, every
2663situation, however distressing to the flesh or perplexing to the
2664perceptions. She looked at everything on the side of God, and found Him
2665always manifested in His providences. She was not merely consecrated
2666_to_ God’s will, she rested _in_ His will, united to it by a most simple
2667faith, finding her joy in Jesus. All that had God in it—and that
2668included everything except sin—was delightful to her. She found the
2669order of Divine providence a very precious and sufficient rule of
2670conduct; for she accounted that every successive second, and every
2671event, however minute, had something about it which made known His will.
2672Hence, trusting fully, and finding God always everywhere, nothing moved
2673her. And she came to feel it to be her special mission, since God had
2674revealed these things to her, as He had not to others, to proclaim this
2675particular kind of holiness; a holiness which was a present privilege
2676and possession, based upon and secured by faith. This interior life, or
2677“inward path,” as she sometimes called it, or state of perfect obedience
2678to the will of God, had still another name by which it came to be widely
2679known—the name of _disinterested_ (or pure, perfect, unselfish) _love_.
2680By this was meant a love which served God for Himself alone,
2681uninfluenced by fear of punishment or hope of reward.
2682
2683She was led to go to the south of France, to Gex, Thonon, Grenoble,
2684Nice, Marseilles; and as she taught these things to those who came
2685within her reach—and great numbers resorted to her—she began straightway
2686to endure the persecutions which are promised by St. Paul to those who
2687follow the godly life. She preached reality rather than forms. The two
2688great principles which she clearly, strongly proclaimed were
2689self-renunciation and perfect union with the Divine will; nothing in
2690ourselves, but all in God. She urged also the reading and study of the
2691Bible, which she constantly practiced herself. These things, of course,
2692brought down upon her the severest opposition from the ruling
2693authorities in the Church. Some were jealous of her because she was a
2694woman; some were rebuked in their sins; some felt that she was preaching
2695the heresies of Protestantism; some were offended at the unaccustomed
2696terms she employed. The doctrine of full salvation by faith and complete
2697conformity to Christ crucified, never popular in any age or land, was
2698particularly obnoxious then and there. When persecuted in one city she
2699fled to another, as the Savior directed, being in no haste to justify
2700herself, leaving her vindication, for the most part, with God. She was
2701able to do a great deal for the Master in spite of continual opposition,
2702being occupied sometimes from six in the morning till eight at night
2703with those who came to her for spiritual help, writing incessantly also,
2704and scattering her productions. She established a hospital in Grenoble,
2705and was at all times assiduous in rescuing the fallen and doing good to
2706the needy. In one of her books written at this time, called “The Method
2707of Prayer,” she rightly says: “No man can know whether he is wholly
2708consecrated to the Lord except by tribulation. That is the test. To
2709rejoice in God’s will when that will imparts nothing but happiness is
2710easy, even for the natural man. But none but the religious man can
2711rejoice in the Divine will when it crosses his path, disappoints his
2712expectations, and overwhelms him with sorrow. Trial, therefore, instead
2713of being shunned, should be welcomed as a test, and the only true test
2714of the true state.” She nobly endured this test, not only at this time,
2715but still more signally as the years went on. She arrived again in
2716Paris, five years after her departure from that city, July 22, 1686.
2717Here she became one of the little circle which met frequently for
2718religious and social purposes at the Hotel de Beauvilliers, a circle
2719which included Madame de Maintenon and Fénelon.
2720
2721When Fénelon was in the province of Poitou, at work among the Huguenots
2722in 1686, he first heard of Madame Guyon and became somewhat acquainted
2723with her writings, which deeply interested him, as they were drawn so
2724largely from Francis of Sales, his own chief teacher. On returning from
2725his mission in 1687, he passed through the city of Montargis, and made
2726there careful inquiries concerning this woman. He was impressed, says M.
2727de Bausset, one of his biographers, “by the unanimous testimonies which
2728he heard of her piety and goodness.” On returning to Paris he met her
2729for the first time at the house of the Duchess of Charost, a few miles
2730beyond Versailles, and again soon after at the house of the Duchess of
2731Bethune. This was in the latter part of 1688, after her release from her
2732first imprisonment. For her enemies, among whom was her half-brother,
2733the Abbé la Mothe, had followed her to Paris, accused her to Monsieur de
2734Harlai, the notoriously wicked archbishop, and he easily obtained from
2735the king, to whom it was represented that her doctrines were
2736substantially the same as those of the heretic Molinos, a _lettre de
2737cachet_, or sealed order, putting her in confinement, January 29, 1688.
2738She refused to purchase her liberty by the sacrifice of her little
2739daughter, only twelve years of age, whom the king wished to force into a
2740very unseemly marriage with a person who wished to get possession of her
2741large property. She refused also to take other means for her release
2742which did not commend themselves to her as right. She answered them, “I
2743am content to suffer whatever it pleases God to order or permit, but I
2744would sooner die upon the scaffold than utter the falsehoods you
2745propose.” Whether written at this time or at some of her subsequent
2746imprisonments, the following hymn of hers so well represents her
2747constant attitude that it is eminently proper to insert it here:
2748
2749  “A little bird I am,
2750    Shut from the fields of air;
2751  And in my cage I sit and sing
2752    To Him who placed me there;
2753  Well pleased a prisoner to be,
2754  Because, my God, it pleases Thee.
2755
2756  Nought have I else to do;
2757    I sing the whole day long;
2758  And He, whom most I love to please,
2759    Doth listen to my song;
2760  He caught and bound my wandering wing,
2761  But still He bends to hear me sing.
2762
2763  Thou hast an ear to hear;
2764    A heart to love and bless;
2765  And, though my notes were e’er so rude,
2766    Thou would’st not hear the less;
2767  Because Thou knowest as they fall,
2768  That Love, sweet Love, inspires them all.
2769
2770  My cage confines me round;
2771    Abroad I can not fly;
2772  But, though my wing is closely bound,
2773    My heart’s at liberty.
2774  My prison walls can not control
2775  The flight, the freedom of the soul.
2776
2777  O, it is good to soar,
2778    These bolts and bars above,
2779  To Him whose purpose I adore,
2780    Whose providence I love;
2781  And in Thy mighty will to find
2782  The joy, the freedom of the mind.”
2783
2784Her friends were not idle, and finally, by the intercession of Madame de
2785Miramion, Madame de Maisonfort, and the Duchesses Beauvilliers and
2786Chevreuse, acting through Madame de Maintenon upon the king, Madame
2787Guyon was released in October, 1688. On being set free she took up her
2788residence at the house of Madame de Miramion, and resumed her labor for
2789souls as opportunity presented itself. Early in 1690 her daughter was
2790married to Count de Vaux, a man of high character, brother of the
2791Duchess de Bethune and nephew of the Duchess de Charost; and as the
2792child was scarcely fourteen she went to live with her a little way out
2793of the city. Here Fénelon visited frequently, and when she had once more
2794returned to Paris, hiring a private house for herself there in 1692, he
2795met her much.
2796
2797What of her influence upon him? Those not in sympathy with her ideas, by
2798whom indeed the inner things of the kingdom are pertly dubbed
2799“nonsense,” have called her “the evil genius of his life,” and ascribed
2800to her what they are pleased to term his ruin and downfall. We are very
2801certain that he did not himself regard either it or her in that light.
2802They had very much in common. There was the same hunger after the
2803highest religious attainments, and their ideas as to the path were at
2804bottom the same. Fénelon had the theological training which she lacked,
2805and hence found difficulty with many of her expressions, which seemed to
2806him objectionable and liable to misapprehension, as doubtless they were.
2807But it seems altogether probable that at this time she was more advanced
2808in the spiritual life, more perfectly taught of God, than he. Hence, in
2809the extended correspondence which took place between them, covering a
2810space of some two years or more, from its beginning in November, 1688,
2811it is usually he who asks the questions and seeks for explanations. She
2812responded with entire patience and deep religious insight, taking all
2813possible pains, as may well be supposed, with so distinguished yet so
2814docile a pupil. To one with so clear an intellect and so sympathetic a
2815spirit she could express her thought with the utmost freedom, and his
2816enlightened, powerful mind, untrammeled by the prejudices which so often
2817prevented—and always prevents—correct perceptions, readily saw the
2818validity of her views. She herself says: “I was enabled in our
2819conversations so fully to explain everything to Fénelon that he
2820gradually entered into the views which the Lord had led me to entertain,
2821and finally gave them his unqualified assent. The persecutions which he
2822has since suffered are the evidence of the sincerity of his belief.” If
2823he was greatly indebted to her, as everything appears to prove—and as
2824many other eminent men have been to godly women—for getting into a much
2825closer conformity to the will of God, it is no wonder that he was never
2826willing to unite with her enemies in her condemnation, although every
2827earthly motive was on that side.
2828
2829It was in 1692 that the acquaintance of Madame Guyon with Madame de
2830Maintenon became somewhat intimate, so much so that she was often
2831invited to the royal palace at Versailles, and was introduced to the
2832celebrated institution at St. Cyr. Being given liberty to visit the
2833young ladies there, she talked with them on religious subjects, and
2834speedily acquired the strongest possible influence over them. This soon
2835brought her name into general notice, and excited once more intense
2836hostility. One of her servants was bribed to poison her, and almost
2837succeeded. She suffered from the effects for seven years. It is at this
2838time that Bossuet—confessedly the leader of the French Church by reason
2839of reputation, learning, and intellectual strength—became alarmed at the
2840reports he heard of the strange influence of this woman in high
2841quarters, and determined to put forth his splendid powers for the
2842extinction of what he deemed a new heresy. His first interview with her
2843took place in September, 1693, his second, January 30, 1694. He found
2844much to admire in her positions, but he judged by the head rather than
2845the heart, and was not fully satisfied. Accordingly she wrote to Madame
2846de Maintenon, asking that a number of suitable persons might be selected
2847to carefully examine her doctrines and her morals; for her character as
2848well as her teachings had been loudly assailed, as is customary in such
2849situations. The king approved of the plan, and appointed three
2850commissioners, the most eminent for virtues and talents that could well
2851be selected, which was a marked tribute to the intellectual power and
2852personal influence of Madame Guyon. They were Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux;
2853M. Tronson, Superior of the Seminary of St. Sulpice; and M. de Noailles,
2854Bishop of Chalons, afterwards the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris. These
2855persons had many meetings in 1694 and 1695, and drew up what were known
2856as the Articles of Issy. Fénelon, being on terms of the greatest
2857intimacy with these three theologians, was in frequent communication
2858with them concerning the matter, and was often consulted, especially by
2859Bossuet, while the articles were being framed. When they were completed
2860he was asked to sign them, which, after a few changes and the addition
2861of four articles which he deemed essential to prevent misconception, he
2862gladly did. Even Madame Guyon gave her assent to them, although they
2863bore rather hardly on some of her positions, without mentioning her
2864name, and were expressly designed to protect the public against her
2865alleged extravagances.
2866
2867She was at this time in a sort of confinement in the Convent of St.
2868Mary, in Meaux, under Bossuet’s supervision. He had many interviews with
2869her, and, in a letter to the prioress of the convent, said expressly
2870that “he had examined the writings of Madame Guyon with great care, and
2871found in them nothing censurable, with the exception of some terms which
2872were not wholly conformed to the strictness of theology; but that a
2873woman was not expected to be a theologian.” He also, at her desire,
2874after six months’ residence, gave her a certificate speaking in the most
2875favorable terms of her character and conduct. But no sooner was she
2876again in Paris than her enemies started at once into life. The king was
2877alarmed lest Quietism—a system of faith and practice at the complete
2878antipodes from his own—should gain further currency, and Madame de
2879Maintenon, taking her cue from him, as she always did, ranged herself
2880promptly with its enemies. Bossuet also, finding that he had been more
2881lenient toward her than was politic, demanded back from Madame Guyon his
2882certificate. This she could not consent to surrender, and he set himself
2883with full determination to crush her. December 27, 1695, she was
2884arrested and incarcerated in the castle of Vincennes, where she
2885underwent for nine months a very severe imprisonment. She says: “I
2886passed my time in great peace, content to spend the remainder of my life
2887there if such should be the will of God. I employed part of my time in
2888writing religious songs.” In August, 1696, she was transferred to
2889another prison at Vaugiraud, a village near Paris, where she remained
2890till September, 1698, and was then immured in one of the stern, dark
2891towers of the dreaded Bastile, where she remained four years more in
2892solitary confinement. Just previous to her commitment there she writes:
2893“I feel no anxiety in view of what my enemies will do to me. I have no
2894fear of anything but of being left to myself. So long as God is with me,
2895neither imprisonment nor death will have any terrors.” A little later
2896she writes: “I, being in the Bastile, said to Thee, O my God, if Thou
2897art pleased to render me a spectacle to men and angels, Thy holy will be
2898done. All that I ask is that Thou wilt be with me and save those who
2899love Thee. As for me, what matters it what men think of me or what they
2900make me suffer, since they can not separate me from that Savior whose
2901name is engraven in the very bottom of my heart. If I can only be
2902accepted of Him, I am willing that all men should despise and hate me.
2903Their strokes will polish what may be defective in me, so that I may be
2904presented in peace to Him for whom I die daily.” Her language was:
2905
2906  “In vain they smite me. Men but do
2907  What God permits with different view:
2908  To outward sight they hold the rod,
2909  But faith proclaims it all of God.”
2910
2911And similar are the beautiful words of her hymn:
2912
2913  “My Lord, how full of sweet content,
2914  I pass my years of banishment!
2915  Where’er I dwell I dwell with Thee,
2916  In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.
2917  To me remains nor place nor time:
2918  My country is in every clime;
2919  I can be calm and free from care
2920  On any shore since God is there.
2921
2922  While place we seek or place we shun,
2923  The soul finds happiness in none;
2924  But with a God to guide our way,
2925  ’Tis equal joy to go or stay.
2926  Could I be cast where Thou art not,
2927  That were indeed a dreadful lot;
2928  But regions none remote I call,
2929  Secure of finding God in all.”
2930
2931She made no complaints of those who so cruelly used her. “They believed
2932that they did well,” was her only comment. The Spirit of her Savior was
2933with her: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” In her
2934biography, written later, she says, “I entreat all such persons as shall
2935read this narrative not to indulge in hard or embittered feelings
2936against those who have treated me with unkindness.” Her sufferings were
2937terrible, but the fortitude and resolution with which she endured them,
2938the steadfastness of her faith, and the meekness of her bearing, are
2939worthy of all praise. She does not seem to have doubted for a moment the
2940goodness and truth of God. Her theories were put to the severest of
2941tests, and they did not fail her. It is marvelous that she lived to
2942emerge from the gloomy walls that were the grave of such numbers, or
2943that the tyrannical, bigoted king ever relented so far as to let her go
2944forth. She was liberated when fifty-four years of age (it being evident
2945that she could not survive another year of imprisonment), reduced to
2946great feebleness, her constitution utterly shattered. Yet her enemies
2947were still afraid to let her stay in the neighborhood of Paris; so she
2948was banished for the rest of her life to Blois, one hundred miles away,
2949on the river Loire. There, subjected to constant maladies which often
2950brought her to the verge of death, but supported by abundant spiritual
2951consolations, she did good as she had opportunity to the great numbers
2952of people who came to see her. Her departure from earth occurred June 9,
29531717, and was both peaceful and triumphant. Just before death, writing
2954to her brother, she says, “Whatever may happen, turn not your eye back
2955upon the world; look forward and onward to the heavenly mansions: be
2956strong in faith, fight courageously the battles of the Lord.” Writing to
2957another friend, and referring to her pains, which she said were so great
2958as to call into exercise all the resources and aids of faith, she adds:
2959“Grace was triumphant. It is trying to nature, but I can still say in
2960this last struggle that I love the Hand that smites me.” She said in her
2961last hours, “I rely for my salvation, not on any good works in myself,
2962but on Thy mercies, O my God, and on the merits and sufferings of my
2963Lord Jesus Christ.” She had no faith in the doctrine of
2964transubstantiation, read the Scriptures much, and urged others to study
2965them, insisting constantly upon the necessity of a real sanctification
2966of the heart by the Holy Spirit. That she was one of the high saints of
2967God, her soul a real temple of the Holy Ghost, can in no way be
2968questioned. It is also certain that she had great intellectual power,
2969and in the main taught most important and sacred truth. It is easy to
2970find fault with many of her expressions, but her spirit is beyond
2971praise. That she did on the whole a grand good work and will have a high
2972place in glory, we are fully convinced.
2973
2974We come now to the great conflict between Bossuet and Fénelon. Up to
2975this time they had been friends, at least outwardly. But there are
2976grounds for believing that Fénelon’s growing and prospective influence
2977aroused the envy of the ambitious Bossuet, who, no more than the king,
2978was disposed to brook a rival; and the Quietist controversy speedily
2979took on a character which brought the two bishops into the most direct
2980antagonism. Bossuet completed, after long labor, early in 1696, an
2981exceedingly able book against Quietism, entitled “Instructions on the
2982States of Prayer.” He secured the approval of the other members of the
2983Conference at Issy, and wished to append a favorable testimonial from
2984Fénelon also. The latter examined the manuscript with care, and was
2985obliged to withhold his indorsement. He did so on two grounds: He
2986thought it contained an absolutely unqualified denial of the possibility
2987of the pure, disinterested love of God; and he considered its censures
2988of Madame Guyon too personal and too severe. He was perfectly aware that
2989the refusal to comply with the wishes of Bossuet would be a mortal
2990offense to that haughty, self-willed prelate, and would also displease
2991the king, probably blasting his worldly prospects. But as a man of honor
2992and of true Christian principle he could not and did not hesitate.
2993Writing to M. Tronson at this time, he says, “Am I wrong in wishing not
2994to believe evil sooner than can be helped, and in refusing to curry
2995favor by acting against my conscience?” He declared that he would not
2996attack “a poor woman who is trodden down by so many, and whose friend I
2997have been,” for the sake of dispelling suspicion against himself; that
2998he would not speak against his conscience or recklessly insult a person
2999whom he had respected as a saint. “It would be infamous weakness in me,”
3000he said, “to speak doubtfully in relation to her character in order to
3001free myself from oppression.” Other extracts from his letters at this
3002time, had we space to give them, would show conclusively the high ground
3003he took, the only ground which his own character and self-respect, as
3004well as his feeling of gratitude toward the persecuted woman, could
3005possibly permit. Had he done otherwise, what would the world now think
3006of him?
3007
3008His chief friends approved his course, but insisted that he must write
3009his views in full. He did so, producing his elaborate work called “The
3010Maxims of the Saints,” published in January, 1697. Without naming Madame
3011Guyon, it was in fact her defense, the exposition of her opinions as he
3012understood them, and as she had explained them to him in private. It was
3013hailed as a golden work by Cardinal de Noailles, M. Tronson, the Bishop
3014of Chartres, and many other leading men of France.[8] But Bossuet was
3015roused to fury. “Take your own measures,” he said to these men; “I will
3016raise my voice to the heavens against these errors so well known to you;
3017I will complain to Rome, and to the whole earth. It shall not be said
3018that the cause of God is weakly betrayed. Though I should stand singly
3019in it, I will advocate it.” But none better knew than he that so far
3020from standing singly in it he had the warmest possible backing from the
3021king. Louis XIV had no love for Fénelon. He had raised him to certain
3022dignities, partly because of his uncommon abilities, and partly because
3023of his favor with the public, rather than as a sign of any personal
3024attachment. Fénelon was, throughout his life, the very embodiment of all
3025that Louis did not like, and this, considering Louis’ character, was one
3026of his chief glories. The two men were so far apart in most things, and
3027their minds were so differently constituted that there was no common
3028bond of sympathy, and the only wonder is how they got along together as
3029well as they did. Fénelon, while possessing a great superiority of
3030genius, exhibited also an elevation of moral and personal character of
3031which the king stood in awe, and he was glad that the accusation of
3032heresy gave him a good opportunity to be rid of his uncomfortable
3033presence.
3034
3035The battle was now on, and it was between two giants. Bossuet, the
3036eagle, was essentially masculine, marked by solidity, vigor, and logic.
3037Fénelon, the swan, was essentially feminine, filled with tenderness,
3038spiritual enthusiasm, aspiration. Bossuet had the experience of age,
3039Fénelon the full powers of middle manhood; Bossuet had the greater skill
3040in argument, Fénelon the richer imagination. Bossuet in style, it has
3041been said, reminds one of the expansive and philosophical mind of Burke,
3042combined with the heavy strength and dictatorial manner of Johnson.
3043Fénelon had a large share of the luxuriant imagination of Jeremy Taylor,
3044chastened by the refined taste and classic ease of Addison. Fénelon was
3045naturally mild and forbearing in disposition, but inflexible in his
3046principles and incapable of being influenced by pleasures on the one
3047hand, or by threats on the other; he was amiable without weakness, firm
3048without bitterness. Bossuet, on the other hand, was a man of strong
3049passions, accustomed to ascendency, impatient of opposition, and, as the
3050contest went on, irritated by the unexpected difficulties he
3051encountered, he resorted to means for the carrying of his cause which
3052have left a lasting stain upon his name. But Fénelon came forth from the
3053ordeal, even as John Fletcher did in his controversy with Toplady,
3054elevated all the higher in the admiration of mankind. Bossuet, in the
3055course of the contest, referring to one of Fénelon’s publications, made
3056the following remark: “His friends say everywhere that his reply is a
3057triumphant work, and that he has great advantages in it over me. We
3058shall see hereafter whether it is so.” Fénelon thereupon addressed a
3059letter to Bossuet in the following terms: “May heaven forbid that I
3060should strive for victory over any person, least of all over you. It is
3061not man’s victory, but God’s glory which I seek; and happy, thrice happy
3062shall I be if that object is secured, though it should be attended with
3063my confusion and with your triumph. There is no occasion, therefore, to
3064say, ‘We shall see who will have the advantage.’ I am ready now, without
3065waiting for future developments, to acknowledge that you are my superior
3066in science, in genius, in everything that usually commands attention.
3067And in respect to the controversy between us, there is nothing which I
3068wish more than to be vanquished by you if the positions which I take are
3069wrong. Two things only do I desire—_truth_ and _peace_; truth which may
3070enlighten, and peace which may unite us.”
3071
3072The two combatants put forth all their strength, and the conflict
3073attracted the eyes of all Europe. Book followed book in close and quick
3074succession on both sides. Each of the antagonists showed a thorough
3075mastery of the subject, and exerted himself to the utmost, stimulated by
3076the importance of the struggle and the large issues at stake, not only
3077of a personal nature but of a general character. The whole Christian
3078world looked on with deep interest.
3079
3080The chief doctrine that Fénelon set himself to defend is summarized by
3081Upham in the following three propositions: “First, the provisions of the
3082Gospel are such that men may gain the entire victory over their sinful
3083propensities, and may live in constant and accepted communion with God;
3084second, persons are in this state when they love God with all their
3085heart; in other words, with pure or unselfish love; third, there have
3086been instances of Christians, though probably few in number, who, so far
3087as can be decided by man’s imperfect judgment, have reached this state,
3088and it is the duty of all, encouraged by the ample provision which is
3089made, to strive to attain to it.” But the main issue was speedily
3090confused with an abundance of side questions, particular sentences and
3091parts of sentences being picked out for attack, much space being taken,
3092as in all such cases, with merely verbal criticisms founded on
3093misconceptions or on the necessary imperfection of language. The
3094celebrated Leibnitz remarked that, before the war of words between
3095Bossuet and Fénelon began, the prelates should have agreed on a
3096definition of the word love, and that such a definition might have
3097prevented the dispute. The worst thing was that Bossuet, driven to
3098extremities by the trouble he found in making headway theologically and
3099fearing defeat, descended to a personal attack on Fénelon’s character,
3100insinuating things which he had not the audacity to state plainly or the
3101facts to substantiate. This, of course, reacted. For Fénelon—against his
3102own wishes, but being shown the necessity of it by his friends—wrote a
3103marvelous reply, of which Charles Butler, one of his biographers, and by
3104no means a partisan one, says: “A nobler effusion of the indignation of
3105insulted virtue and genius, eloquence has never produced. In the very
3106first lines of it Fénelon placed himself above his antagonist, and to
3107the last preserves his elevation. Never did genius and virtue obtain a
3108more complete triumph. Fénelon’s reply, by a kind of enchantment,
3109restored to him every heart. Crushed by the strong arm of power,
3110abandoned by the multitude, there was nothing to which he could look but
3111his own powers. Obliged to fight for his honor, it was necessary for
3112him, if he did not consent to sink under the accusation, to assume a
3113port still more imposing than that of his mighty antagonist. Much had
3114been expected from him; but none supposed that he would raise himself to
3115so prodigious a height as would not only repel the attack of his
3116antagonist but entirely reduce him to the defensive.”
3117
3118It was seen at an early period of the controversy that there was no
3119probability of its being settled by any tribunal short of that of the
3120pope himself. Fénelon, seeing the unscrupulous, powerful forces that
3121were arrayed against him in Paris, applied to the king in July, 1697,
3122for permission to go to Rome under any restrictions His Majesty might
3123think appropriate. This the monarch absolutely refused, knowing well, no
3124doubt, that the personal charm of the saintly disputant would be likely
3125to carry everything before it. He would only permit him to send agents
3126there to act in his behalf. Fénelon himself he curtly ordered to proceed
3127immediately to his diocese, to remain there, and not to stop in Paris on
3128the way any longer than his affairs made his stay absolutely necessary.
3129Fénelon received this undeserved sentence of banishment, very roughly
3130couched, with his customary calmness and submission. In passing through
3131the city he stopped before the seminary of St. Sulpice, where he had
3132spent so many happy hours, and which he was never to see again; but he
3133forbore from entering the house lest his showing a regard for it might
3134expose its inhabitants to His Majesty’s displeasure. The king, with his
3135own hands, some time after this, crossed off Fénelon’s name from the
3136list of court officials, and also dismissed from service every one
3137connected with him, save only the Abbé Fleury, who, though a devoted
3138friend of the archbishop, had never taken any part in the exciting
3139topics of the day. But the rest who had been employed about the Duke of
3140Burgundy for nine years, not blamelessly alone but how successfully his
3141altered character and advanced education could show, were rudely sent
3142off without any acknowledgment whatever of their valuable services,
3143without even a civil word or a penny of reward.
3144
3145And how went matters at Rome? The Abbé de Chanterac, an intimate friend
3146and relation, of highest probity and piety, was Fénelon’s agent there.
3147The Abbé Bossuet, a nephew of the bishop, a vulgar, blustering,
3148unscrupulous fellow, with a most violent, intemperate spirit, fitly
3149represented the interests of his uncle. The pope, Innocent XII, a man of
3150a benevolent and equitable temper, found his position a very difficult
3151one, somewhat similar to that of Pilate at the trial of Jesus. His
3152sympathies were wholly with Fénelon, and there is no doubt that he would
3153gladly have given a verdict in his favor, or dismissed the whole matter,
3154could he have done so without mortally offending the king. He had at
3155first hoped that the business might be settled in France by mild and
3156conciliatory measures, and had expressed this wish to Louis; but the
3157suggestion was entirely unavailing. So he was obliged to take up the
3158very unpleasant task. He appointed a commission of ten persons called
3159“Consulters” to give a thorough examination of Fénelon’s books. But
3160after sixty-four successive and protracted sittings of six or seven
3161hours each, at many of which the pope himself assisted, they found
3162themselves so evenly divided in relation to it that no satisfactory
3163result could reasonably be expected from the continuance of their
3164deliberations. The pope accordingly selected a commission of cardinals
3165to pronounce upon the matter; but after twelve sittings they were unable
3166to come to any conclusion, and were dissolved. Next a new congregation
3167of cardinals were selected, and met in consultation no less than
3168fifty-two times without getting on very far. The long delays and the
3169hesitation shown at Rome to condemn Fénelon were utterly unexpected by
3170either Bossuet or the king, and made them furious. Constantly increasing
3171pressure was brought to bear from Paris to secure the result pleasing to
3172the monarch.
3173
3174At the very beginning, in July, 1697, the king, by Bossuet’s
3175instigation, wrote an urgent letter to the pope calling upon him
3176speedily to condemn Fénelon’s book. Missive after missive of similar
3177purport went forward, and all the arts of diplomacy, all the influences
3178which Louis could in any way exert, were unblushingly employed for
3179Fénelon’s overthrow. Affairs at Rome, indeed, before long involved
3180themselves into a perfect tangle of chicanery and intrigue, cardinal
3181against cardinal, ambassador against ambassador. Other courts besides
3182that of France took a hand. The imperial ambassador worked hard for
3183Fénelon; the Spanish minister was zealous on the other side; and a
3184smaller potentate, Cosmo, Grand Duke of Tuscany, a dabbler in theology,
3185threw his weight in the latter direction. The poor pope was violently
3186pulled, now this way, now that. He greatly liked Fénelon, admiring his
3187beautiful spirit and appreciating his loyal attachment to the Holy See.
3188He resented the disgraceful attempt to browbeat him on the part of the
3189desperate king and the Bishop of Meaux, a pragmatical, pugnacious bully.
3190He could scarcely see any way of censuring any of Fénelon’s propositions
3191without censuring also other writers of the same sort, like St. Bernard
3192and St. Francis of Sales, whom the Church had delighted to honor. It
3193seemed to him also, as was indeed the case, almost if not quite wholly a
3194dispute about words. As to a habitual state of disinterested Divine
3195love, the attainment of which was said to be inculcated in Fénelon’s
3196writings, Fénelon himself uniformly declared his opinion that a
3197permanent state of Divine love, without hope and without fear, was above
3198the lot of man. And Bossuet himself allowed that there might be moments
3199when the soul, dedicated to the love of God, would be lost in heavenly
3200contemplation, and then love and adore without being influenced by
3201either hope or fear, or being sensible of either. Their real ground of
3202difference was, after all, very small, and there was much to be said on
3203both sides. And, under all these circumstances, it is scarcely
3204surprising that it took so long to reach a decision.
3205
3206It was postponed from month to month in the hope that some chance—the
3207death of the king or of Bossuet—might relieve the pressure, and allow
3208the papal conscience its rights as against the papal policy. As late as
3209the autumn of 1698, a whole year after the conference of the ten
3210“Consulters” began, five of them persisted, in defiance of every
3211pressure that could be brought to bear upon them, in pronouncing the
3212book to be absolutely orthodox, and so proceedings had to be begun
3213again. The real issue of the struggle had probably never been doubtful
3214in case the French court insisted. For, as the cardinals said: “It will
3215not do to fire great guns at the king. Rome’s wisest course demands of
3216her to yield to him whatever may be yielded without wounding the first
3217principles of religion.” It is absolutely certain that, but for this
3218unseemly influence, the decision would have been in Fénelon’s favor. As
3219it was, the pope and his advisers struggled hard to wriggle out of their
3220dilemma with as little violence to their feelings and their honor as
3221they could. After it was settled that they must in some way give the
3222decision as the king so imperatively demanded, there were a great many
3223meetings of the Conclave to decide on the precise form it should take.
3224This required months of wrangling and debate. It was at first intended
3225to issue a simple brief, distinctly affirming that His Holiness did not
3226intend to condemn the author’s explanations of his book, but giving some
3227general disapproval of certain inferences drawn from it, and asserting
3228the Church’s true doctrine as opposed to the Quietists, without casting
3229any blame on the Archbishop of Cambrai. This would have been done had
3230not Bossuet’s agents at Rome, assisted by the Cardinal Cassanata, a man
3231of most imperious will and overbearing temper, exerted themselves to the
3232utmost, fortified by fresh letters from the king dictated by Bossuet,
3233insisting, with hardly veiled threats of the direful consequences that
3234would ensue from disobedience, that the decision be “clear, precise,
3235capable of no misinterpretation, such as is necessary to remove all
3236doubt with regard to doctrine and eradicate the very root of the evil.”
3237Thus badgered and driven and terrified, there seemed to be nothing to do
3238but submit; so at length, on the 12th of March, the whole Sacred College
3239was assembled at the palace of Monte Cavallo, where the decree was
3240accepted by the whole body of cardinals, signed by the pope in their
3241presence, and immediately posted in all the principal public places of
3242Rome.
3243
3244The book itself, strictly speaking, was not condemned, but only
3245twenty-three propositions which purported to be extracted from it. The
3246pope took pains to say, and to have it clearly understood, that they
3247were condemned, not in the sense which they might bear or in the sense
3248in which they were explained by Fénelon himself. The propositions were
3249said to be condemned because, not being worded in conformity with the
3250author’s real intentions, they might insensibly lead the faithful to
3251errors already condemned by the Catholic Church; because they contained
3252words which, in the sense that more immediately presented itself were
3253rash, ill-sounding, offensive to pious ears, and erroneous. The
3254cardinals refused to associate the name of heretic, or of anything
3255resembling heresy, with Fénelon—his name, indeed, was not once mentioned
3256in the brief—and they absolutely rejected the usual appendage to a brief
3257of condemnation, an order for the book to be burned. Very little was
3258really decided. The words were very gentle, and in important ways
3259noncommittal. Disinterestedness in the larger sense was neither asserted
3260nor denied; all that was done was to prune Fénelon’s system of what
3261might be considered its extravagances. In pronouncing, on the whole,
3262against the “Maxims,” Rome had not really declared for Bossuet. Fénelon
3263could lawfully tell his friends that disinterestedness was not
3264condemned, but only its exaggerated statement; self-interest had not
3265been made an essential condition of our love of God,—it was still
3266possible to love Him for Himself, provided that hope and desire of
3267heaven were not habitually of set purpose excluded. All this soothed the
3268sorrows of the friends of Fénelon’s, as it was designed to do, and
3269considerably mortified his enemies, which mortification was increased by
3270a _bon mot_ of the pope, which was soon in every mouth, that “Fénelon
3271was in fault for too great love of God; and his enemies equally in fault
3272for too little love of their neighbor.” The pope, indeed, had repeatedly
3273called Fénelon “a very great archbishop, most pious, most holy, most
3274learned;” and he gave to the Abbé de Chanterac every indication of the
3275extreme reluctance with which he moved in the matter.
3276
3277It was, on the whole, a very barren victory for Bossuet; but he accepted
3278it rather than run any further risk in the long-drawn-out contest, of
3279which all parties were thoroughly weary. It had cost him dear in both
3280reputation and character. No one now, however small his admiration for
3281Fénelon, attempts to defend the steps which Bossuet took or the
3282dishonorable means to which in his desperation he resorted to compass
3283his end. He contended not lawfully, and deserves no crown. He showed an
3284irritation, rancor, bitterness, and malignity most lamentable; used
3285invective, artifice, and garbled quotations; sullied himself forever by
3286the course he took. With brutal irony and savage harshness he hectored,
3287threatened, plotted, violated confidences, and made accusations as base
3288as they were reckless. He used without scruple secret writings which he
3289had received from Madame Guyon, private letters written to him by
3290Fénelon during their early intimacy, and a letter which, under the seal
3291of friendship, Fénelon had written to Madame de Maintenon, and which in
3292this trying hour she unfeelingly communicated to Bossuet, having
3293entirely changed in her attitude toward him since the king’s animosity
3294was evident. Bossuet’s personal charges against his amiable and
3295estimable adversary, not believed by any one, showed the innate
3296smallness of his nature, the desperate strait to which he was driven,
3297and the degree to which he had let jealousy and rivalry of one greater
3298than he take possession of his bosom. That he himself was of plebeian
3299birth—a bar which kept him from the goal of his ambition in the
3300cardinalate—while Fénelon was of the patricians, had doubtless something
3301to do with it. He squandered his waning powers on a controversy which
3302added no luster to his reputation, and brought him no nearer to the
3303summit of his desires. Too late he realized that it was impossible to
3304ruin such a man as Fénelon in the eyes of those who had learned to love
3305him. He might be banished from the Vatican and from Versailles, silenced
3306by the pope, and disgraced by the king, but he was cherished none the
3307less in the hearts of the devout, idolized and adored as an oracle of
3308piety and virtue.
3309
3310Fénelon was not once betrayed into abuse or slander throughout the
3311struggle in which he had so much at stake. No unkind word respecting any
3312of his persecutors escaped him. He continually exhibited wonderful
3313gentleness and dignity, elevated self-respect, the urbanity of a refined
3314gentleman, and the grace of an exalted Christian. His style was forcible
3315and effective, but with no mixture of sarcasm. Posterity has done him
3316justice; has affirmed that throughout this contest no stain rests upon
3317his moral character, and that he was absolutely sincere when he said, “I
3318ask God to grant M. de Meaux as many blessings as he has heaped crosses
3319upon me;” _curses_, he might have said. All this while his enemies were
3320using every means “to hunt him down like a wild beast;” this was the
3321expression they used. “Never once,” says a person who has thoroughly
3322examined the entire correspondence, “in the mass of letters that Fénelon
3323sent to his confidential agent at Rome, do we come across a mean or
3324unjust expression; there is not one letter that one feels inclined to
3325wish had not been kept for the sake of the writer.” As attack after
3326attack descends upon him, intended to humiliate and crush, he rises
3327above it, greater and nobler, more faithful in following his Master’s
3328footsteps than ever. He continually implored the pope to stop the
3329endless war of pamphlets which was doing so much harm to the cause of
3330religion and the Church. It was with the greatest reluctance that he was
3331forced into the fight. Under the grossest of libels he would have
3332remained silent had his friends consented. But he was compelled by the
3333actions of his adversaries to speak out sometimes with great vigor. And
3334he had to obey the voice of his conscience and the dictates of chivalry,
3335being thoroughly indignant at the unjust treatment accorded to his
3336friend, Madame Guyon. His grief at the rupture of the bond between him
3337and Bossuet was deep and sincere. He wrote, “God alone knows what pain
3338it is to me to give pain to one for whom, in all the world, I have the
3339most attachment and respect.” He wrote this even when he was defending
3340himself from the most virulent attacks; and he would not have called God
3341to witness to a profession that was not absolutely true. By his candor
3342and simplicity, his openness and gentleness, the beauty of his genius,
3343and the reputation of his virtue, he commanded the widest possible
3344respect from all who were capable of appreciating these things. His
3345challenge to his maligners rang out without ambiguity: “I fear nothing,
3346thank God, that will be communicated and examined judicially. I fear
3347nothing but vague report and unexamined allegation.”
3348
3349Fénelon, when the decision at Rome was communicated to him, acted as his
3350friends had expected, although some of them had hardly dared hope that
3351even he could rise so magnificently to the occasion. He accepted,
3352simply, sincerely, sweetly, with no reservation or concealment or
3353half-heartedness, what he regarded as, under the circumstances, the
3354voice of God. His brother, the Compte de Fénelon, heard the tidings
3355first in Paris, and started instantly for Cambrai, thinking that the
3356reception of the news through a kindly channel might at least lighten
3357somewhat the blow. He arrived on the Festival of the Annunciation, just
3358as the archbishop was about to preach in the cathedral. However keenly
3359he felt the blow—and he was, of course, human—he was not disconcerted,
3360or cast down, or perplexed. Pausing a little to arrange his thoughts, he
3361threw aside his intended sermon, and preached on the duty of absolute
3362submission to authority. The congregation, among whom the news was
3363already whispered, was most profoundly impressed with the calm dignity,
3364the noble simplicity of their beloved chief pastor; and the eyes of most
3365overflowed with tears of admiration, affection, grief, and respect as
3366they listened to his heartfelt words.
3367
3368He was not a little harassed, as the days went on, by some zealous,
3369well-meaning folk, who feared that he might not do the best thing, and
3370wrote him long exhortations to submit, telling him of the glory he would
3371find in such humiliation and the heroism he would achieve. He wrote to
3372Beauvilliers: “All this wearies me somewhat; and I am disposed to say to
3373myself, What have I done to all these people that they think I shall
3374find it so difficult to prefer the authority of the Holy See to my own
3375dim knowledge, or the peace of the Church to my own book? However, I am
3376well aware they are right in attributing large imperfections to me and
3377much shrinking from an act of humiliation; therefore I can easily
3378forgive them.” He wrote: “Doubtless it costs one something to humble
3379one’s self; but the least resistance to the Holy See would cost me a
3380hundred-fold more, and I must confess that I can see no room for
3381hesitation in the matter. One may suffer, but one can not have a
3382moment’s doubt.” He also said: “Amid these troubles I have the comfort,
3383little appreciated by the world, but very satisfactory to those who seek
3384God heartily, namely, that my course is clear, and I have nothing to
3385hesitate about.”
3386
3387His enemies sought in vain to find a flaw in his submission. One of his
3388followers wrote: “Your conduct is a living exemplification of the maxims
3389of the saints;” as indeed it was. The dignified humility with which he
3390met misfortune gave him added reputation. He sent out a pastoral letter,
3391short and affecting, which comforted his friends and afflicted his
3392enemies, falsifying every prediction which they had made of the nice
3393subtleties and distinctions with which he would seek to disguise his
3394defeat. His letters at this time breathed in all cases the most amiable
3395spirit of peace and resignation. But in general he declined all writing
3396and discourse on the subject, and at an early moment dismissed the
3397controversy as far as possible from his thoughts. The Bishop of Chartres
3398wrote to Fénelon that he was delighted with his perfect submission: “I
3399have no words to express how my heart is affected with your humble and
3400generous action.” The pope wrote most kindly, and all the cardinals,
3401except Cassanata, sent messages to Fénelon by the Abbé de Chanterac,
3402conveying their respect and attachment. “It is impossible,” wrote the
3403abbé, “to praise more than they did your submission, your pastoral
3404letter, your letters to the pope, and the whole of your conduct.” As one
3405eminent person wrote from Rome, “He was more glorious than if he had
3406never been condemned.” The Chancellor d’Aguesseau writes that Fénelon’s
3407submission made him the hero of the day. “It stands the solitary example
3408in history of a controversy upon a point of such moment which one single
3409sentence terminated at the instant, without its reproduction in any
3410other form, without any attempt to reverse it by power or elude it by
3411distinctions. The glory of it is due to Fénelon, who was able to see
3412that a very great desire to justify one’s self often does more harm than
3413good, and that the surest way to obliterate wrongs unjustly imputed is
3414to let them be forgotten and die out in silence.”
3415
3416Fénelon said, “In all this, so far from referring it to my opponents, I
3417see no human agent; I see God only, and I am content to accept what He
3418does.” “In the name of God,” he writes to a friend, “speak to me only of
3419God, and leave men to judge of me as they like. As for me, I shall seek
3420only peace and silence.” He had no resentment toward any one; but he
3421steadily refused, with proper dignity and uncompromising adherence to
3422the right, to utter one syllable which could be perverted into a
3423semblance of retraction. He said that since the head of the Church, with
3424its superior light and authority, had so judged, he must believe himself
3425to have insufficiently explained his meaning, but he declared, in
3426justice to himself, that he never understood the text, or supposed any
3427one else could understand it, save in the sole sense which he had
3428himself assigned to it. While ready at all times to meet his opponents
3429in the humblest and most peaceful spirit, as he declared, he declined to
3430enter into any negotiations that would imply a yielding of what
3431concerned his conscience or his sense of truth in order to win them. He
3432ceased to write and converse upon the subject from this time. But in the
3433discharge of his duties among his own people and in his correspondence,
3434he never ceased to inculcate the doctrine of pure love. He thought it
3435his duty to avoid certain forms of expression, and certain illustrations
3436which had been specifically condemned in the Papal Decree, and which
3437were liable to be misconceived, but he went no further. How could he?
3438Nor do we find that room to wonder, which some have done, at the
3439heartiness and promptness of his submission to what he doubtless felt
3440was, from a human point of view, unjust. He refused to confine himself
3441to the human point of view. He held, with General Charles George Gordon,
3442and many others in our own day, that, however we may rightly struggle to
3443alter events while they are in the process of formation, when once they
3444have come to pass they register a decree of the Almighty, and any
3445reluctance to receive them is rebellion against Him, something not to be
3446thought of by a truly loyal heart. This theory and practice made earth
3447to him very heavenly, and life a triumphant march.
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452                              CHAPTER VI.
3453                          THE GOOD ARCHBISHOP.
3454
3455
3456It is now our privilege to bid farewell to the noise of battle, and look
3457at the good archbishop in the peaceful retirement of his great diocese,
3458where, as all admit, his episcopal duties were perfectly performed. Even
3459the most captious carpers and cavilers at Fénelon, who can see little or
3460no good in any other part of his life and try hard to find some unworthy
3461motive at the bottom of the acts that seem so fair, are sore put to it,
3462when they come to this portion, to withhold a meed of hearty praise.
3463They are forced to admit that his misfortunes have helped his character,
3464and that he shines forth with a luster rarely, if ever, equaled. What he
3465would have become spiritually had the world continued to smile upon him
3466is, of course, unknown. Had Louis XIV died and the Duke of Burgundy come
3467to the throne, Fénelon would undoubtedly have reached the cardinalate
3468for which his birth and abilities so well fitted him, and might even
3469have gone higher. But it is not likely that, in the vitiated atmosphere
3470of the court, and surrounded by the temptations inevitably awaiting on
3471unclouded success, his character could have developed as it did in
3472affliction. Some measure of adversity seems to be essential to bring out
3473the best there is in us. His career has been called by some superficial
3474observers “a splendid failure,” but the words have no meaning except in
3475the sense in which they might be used of Jesus of Nazareth and a
3476multitude of others who have stood for the highest ideals and have died
3477nobly fighting against wrong. Fénelon did not falter in his course; he
3478obeyed at eve “the voice obeyed at prime;” he held to the end the
3479supreme purpose which had inspired his earliest reflections. But his
3480years of exile, spent in the single-hearted service of his people, are a
3481more impressive and edifying conclusion to a life begun under the
3482auspices of St. Sulpice than if they had been attended with all the
3483glories of the papal court. His reverses of fortune gave him an
3484admirable opportunity, magnificently improved, to show that his high
3485theories of resignation and self-surrender, and a serene acceptance of
3486everything from God’s hand, could work well in practice. Under the
3487stress of his troubles he gained new depth and breadth of piety, new
3488self-reliance and self-control, larger tranquillity, a more thoroughly
3489compacted character.
3490
3491Cambrai, to which, he was banished in 1697, and where he spent the last
3492eighteen years of his life, was a town of no great size or beauty, on
3493the river Scheldt, in the extreme north, near the Flemish frontier. It
3494was the ecclesiastical center of the Flemish provinces which were
3495conquered during the early half of the reign of Louis XIV, and confirmed
3496to France by the treaty of Nimwegen in 1678. Formerly a dependency of
3497the chaotic Empire, there still clung around it some of the prestige of
3498departed glories when its bishop’s jurisdiction extended over Brussels,
3499and he governed the territory with almost the power of an independent
3500sovereign, having his own fortresses and garrisons and mint. Fénelon
3501himself ranked both as a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire and as a Duke
3502of France, and, though possessing no feudal privileges, he was still the
3503principal landholder of the province, with a floating revenue of some
3504hundred thousand francs, perhaps about a hundred thousand dollars in
3505modern money. It was one of the first positions in the kingdom; but it
3506had some serious drawbacks, especially as a place of permanent
3507residence. He had said on receiving the appointment, “All is vanity and
3508vexation of spirit; I am entering on a state of perpetual servitude in a
3509strange land.” The people there were Flemings, not Frenchmen, in their
3510language, their habits, their modes of thought, with little refinement
3511of any kind, their virtues as coarse-fibered as their manners. It was no
3512small privation for a man like Fénelon—born for Olympus as it were, bred
3513to the best society, and fitted to shine in it with so much luster, and
3514in a time when, even more than now, everything centered around the court
3515at the capital—to be shut out from it all, losing the sympathy and
3516friendship which his earlier years had brought him, the daily
3517intercourse with minds that reflected his own thoughts yet inspired and
3518exhilarated him. For one in the flower of his manhood and at the zenith
3519of his capacities, possessing the gift of language in a marvelous
3520degree, with a filled and cultured brain, to be thrown so absolutely out
3521of his element, out of the world of books and intellectual equals,
3522exiled to a remote corner of the realm amid strangers, was a calamity
3523whose gravity, on one side, it would be wrong to overlook. His
3524sufferings, as nature goes, must have been acute. Yet he speedily
3525adjusted himself to the situation, and there is no note of repining. For
3526mere court favors, its dignities, pomps, and pleasures, he had no real
3527love, and his whole life bears witness to the truth of his often
3528repeated assertions, that he had no wish to return to Paris or
3529Versailles; no wish, that is, under the divinely appointed
3530circumstances; for he was able always to find in such circumstances his
3531highest pleasure. Writing to the Duke de Beauvilliers in November, 1699,
3532he says: “I am sorry, dear duke, to be separated from you, the dear
3533duchess, and a very few other friends. But for all else I rejoice in
3534being away; I sing my canticle of thanksgiving for deliverance, and
3535nothing would cost me so much as to have to return.”
3536
3537He by no means settled down into “a state of passive quietism,” as some
3538ignorantly prate, wholly misconceiving both quietism and the man. The
3539slightest scanning of the records shows how beautifully and zealously
3540active his last years were. If ever a man threw himself into the
3541interests of others, or made the deep love of God, which he breathed as
3542his native air, take loving shape in strenuous acts, it was Fénelon. He
3543was quiet, even as was Madame Guyon, and as all other high saints have
3544been, in so far as to rest with an absolute, unhesitating, unquestioning
3545faith in God’s keeping, asking nothing save that His will might be
3546perfected in him; but he was most active and energetic in body, soul,
3547and spirit for his neighbor’s good. The unremitting labors which he
3548undertook, and which his vast diocese if properly administered demanded,
3549involved a life of the most regular industry. He gave but a short time
3550to sleep, and his working hours began early, so that he had done nearly
3551a day’s work before saying mass. His habit was to say this in his own
3552chapel, after a long time spent previously in prayer, except on
3553Saturdays, when he said it in the cathedral, remaining there to hear the
3554confessions of penitents of any and every class who chose to present
3555themselves. He not infrequently preached in the cathedral, but seems to
3556have preferred the town churches, in some one of which he always
3557preached the Lenten discourses. He made no effort at oratory, aiming
3558chiefly to be plain and intelligible, excluding from his sermons
3559superfluous ornaments as well as obscurity and difficult reasonings. He
3560preached from the heart rather than from the head, and generally without
3561notes, but not without much meditation and prayer. He used to say, “I
3562must spend much time in my closet in order to be prepared for the
3563pulpit, and to be sure that my heart is filled from the Divine fountain
3564before I pour out the streams upon the people.” He declared against the
3565practice of committing sermons to writing and then learning them by
3566heart.
3567
3568To his clergy he was a father and brother in God, gathering them about
3569him as constantly as possible for instruction and inspiration, moving
3570among them with the utmost wisdom, correcting, advising, assisting. One
3571of his first cares was the improvement of the seminary for completing
3572the education of those who were preparing for the Church. It had been at
3573Valenciennes, but he removed it to Cambrai, that it might be under his
3574own eye. It was his great desire to reconstruct it on the lines of the
3575seminary at St. Sulpice, where he himself had been so profited, and to
3576intrust the supervision of the students to priests who were members of
3577that congregation; but he found insuperable obstacles to this scheme in
3578the fear of M. Tronson lest any direct connection between St. Sulpice
3579and Cambrai might draw down upon the former the king’s displeasure. So
3580Fénelon appointed to the head of it his intimate friend, the Abbé de
3581Chanterac, formerly his agent at Rome, saying, “He has the wit, the
3582piety, and the wisdom to govern it peacefully.” But Fénelon devoted
3583great personal care to the students, examining them himself, and
3584endeavoring to estimate their individual capacities. Besides the
3585instruction he gave them during periods of retreat, and at the chief
3586festivals, he conducted conferences once a week, listening with infinite
3587patience to their difficulties and replying with the kindness of a
3588father. No priest proceeded to ordination until he had been five times
3589examined by Fénelon himself. In short, no pains were spared to make the
3590priests of this diocese an example to their degenerate colleagues.
3591
3592In the general administration of his diocese he concentrated all his
3593powers, allowing nothing to escape him, erring, if at all, on the side
3594of mercy and toleration, finding it difficult to believe many of the
3595charges brought against his clergy, and only convinced by the most
3596conclusive evidence. He abstained from unnecessary acts of authority,
3597avoided all unnecessary display, removed what was blamable by meekness
3598and moderation, improved with prudence and sobriety what was good. His
3599administration was uniformly wise, strict in some respects, and yet on
3600broad and liberal lines. There was no harrying of Protestants or
3601Jansenists, no bureaucratic fussiness, no seeking after popularity, but
3602every man, great or small, was treated exactly as was becoming. Between
3603him and his flock, his chapter, or his clergy, there was no discord.
3604Though by his indefatigable zeal he soon made the district committed to
3605his charge the model of a well-regulated diocese, his biographers do not
3606record of him a single instance of what are generally called acts of
3607vigor, or a single instance of gaudy virtue. The peace of heaven was
3608with him, and was communicated to all around. All local customs, down to
3609the humblest, were handled with a delicate touch, and pardonable
3610eccentricities of usage were never dealt with severely. In the matter of
3611patronage he was careful that no outsider, and still less no relative of
3612his own, should swoop down on the richest livings and secure by interest
3613what the natives naturally looked upon as their own by right. He
3614traveled throughout the district, making tours of inspection several
3615times a year, and so coming into touch with every corner, preaching more
3616than once in every one of the six hundred parishes.
3617
3618The laity adored him for his charities, for the gentle firmness of his
3619government, for the natural grace of manner that enhanced a hundred-fold
3620the value of everything he said and did. Always ready to help, yet
3621always modest in offering assistance, he seemed when about some kindly
3622action to be receiving rather than doing a favor. He was always a
3623perfect gentleman, a high-bred man of rank, a model of politeness, and
3624was equally adapted to every grade of society. Men of all classes were
3625at ease in his company. He directed every one to the subject he best
3626understood, and then disappeared himself, thus giving them an
3627opportunity to produce out of their own stock the materials they were
3628most able to furnish. Thus every one parted from him well pleased with
3629himself. Perhaps no one ever possessed in a higher degree the happy
3630talent of easy conversation. His mind was entirely given up to the
3631person with whom he conversed. No one felt his superiority; every one
3632found him on his own level. In visits to the sick at home, to the
3633hospitals and wounded soldiers, he was indefatigable, nor was he a
3634stranger to the Cambrai prisons. He went into the cottages of the poor,
3635and spoke to them of God, and comforted them under the hardships which
3636they suffered. If, when he visited them, they presented him with any
3637refreshments in their unpretending and unpolished manner, he pleased
3638them by seating himself at their humble table and partaking cheerfully
3639and thankfully of what was set before him.
3640
3641Various anecdotes illustrate his benevolence. In one of his rural
3642excursions he met with a peasant in great affliction. Inquiring the
3643cause, he was informed by the man that he had lost his cow, the only
3644support of his indigent family. Fénelon attempted to comfort him, and
3645gave him money to buy another. The peasant showed gratitude, but still
3646was sad, grieving for the cow he had lost, to which he was much
3647attached. Pursuing his walk, Fénelon found at a considerable distance
3648from the place of the interview the very cow which was the object of so
3649much affection. The sun had set, and the night was dark, but the good
3650archbishop drove her back himself to the poor man’s cottage.
3651
3652In February, 1697, before Fénelon had permanently left Versailles, news
3653came that a fire had burned to the ground the archiepiscopal palace at
3654Cambrai, and consumed many or all of his books and writings. His friend,
3655the Abbé de Langeron, seeing Fénelon conversing at ease with a number of
3656persons, supposed he had not heard these unpleasant tidings, and began
3657with some formality and caution to inform him. But Fénelon, perceiving
3658his solicitude, interrupted him by saying that he was fully acquainted
3659with what had happened, adding further that, although the loss was a
3660very great one, he would much rather they were burned than the cottage
3661of a poor peasant. This has been adjudged a more touching and pious
3662rejoinder than that of the literary man whose library was destroyed by
3663fire and who replied to the tidings, “I should have profited little by
3664my books if they had not taught me how to bear the loss of them.”
3665Fénelon was taught compassion for men and acceptance of the Divine will
3666from a higher source than books. At his own expense he rebuilt the
3667palace and furnished it in a suitable style of magnificence, but he did
3668not allow the arms of his family to be affixed or painted on any part of
3669it.
3670
3671The archbishop’s day was very carefully laid out, and has been quite
3672minutely described. After the early rising, the private devotions, and
3673the public services, he was visible until nine o’clock to those only who
3674attended him by appointment. After that, till he dined, his doors were
3675open to all persons who had business with him. Noon was the hour for
3676dinner. His table was suitable to his rank, handsomely dressed, with a
3677great variety and abundance of good food, that his many guests might
3678enjoy themselves, but he himself was extremely abstemious, eating only
3679the simplest and lightest viands, and of them but sparingly. Contrary to
3680the custom of most prelates, his chaplains, secretaries, attendants, and
3681all officers of the household, sat with him at the same table, making a
3682very harmonious household, among whom conversation was briskly carried
3683on, Fénelon taking his part, but leaving every one full scope. After
3684dinner all went to the great state bedchamber, which was very finely
3685furnished, but was used mainly as a sitting-room, Fénelon himself
3686sleeping in a little room adjoining, furnished simply with some gray
3687woolen materials and only adorned with a few engravings. General
3688conversation was continued in the large room; but a small table was
3689placed before Fénelon, on which he signed his name to papers which
3690required immediate dispatch, and took opportunity to give directions to
3691his chaplains on the affairs of the diocese. He said grace both before
3692and after dinner. He spent the evening with those that were in the
3693house, whoever they might be, supping with the people who happened to be
3694present. Supper was at nine. At ten the whole of the household
3695assembled. One of his chaplains read the night prayers, and at the end
3696of them the archbishop rose and gave his general blessing to the
3697company.
3698
3699His chief amusement, when he found it necessary to relax a little from
3700his arduous toils, was that of walking and riding. He loved rural
3701scenes. “The country,” he says in one of his letters, “delights me. In
3702the midst of it I find God’s holy peace.” Everything seemed to him to be
3703full of infinite goodness; and his heart glowed with purest happiness as
3704he escaped from the business and cares which necessarily occupied so
3705much of his time, into the air and the fields, into the flowers and
3706sunshine, of the great Creator.
3707
3708Many visitors came to him from far and near, attracted by his great
3709reputation, and the results of the visits were always the same. Whatever
3710the previous sentiments or opinions, or indifferent or hostile attitude,
3711all were enchanted and moved to highest admiration. The Abbé le Dieu,
3712Bossuet’s secretary, and Canon of Meaux, in September, 1704, was a guest
3713at the palace, and noted everything with the most minute and insatiable
3714curiosity. He found himself treated with the utmost consideration, and
3715given every opportunity to pry into all that interested him, and came
3716away with none but words of hearty praise for all he saw.
3717
3718A Scotchman, Andrew Ramsay, sometimes called the Chevalier de Ramsay,
3719scion of an old Scotch family, exiled for his sympathy with the Stuarts,
3720sickened by many aspects of the Protestantism in which he had grown up,
3721wandered over all Holland and Germany, hoping to find rest amid the
3722philosophers of those countries, but finding it not. In this condition
3723he came to Cambrai, where the archbishop received him with his wonted
3724fatherly kindness, and speedily won his heart. The combination of
3725spiritual religion and practical wisdom which he found in Fénelon, the
3726height of his personal holiness, and the daily-watched beauty of his
3727life, even more than the clear and helpful teachings received, made so
3728deep an impression oh him that he became a convert to the Roman Church,
3729and, even when permitted to return to England, he remained faithful to
3730the doctrines which he had learned at Cambrai. He continued there for
3731many months, never wearying of studying his host’s mind and soul, and
3732eventually writing the first life of him ever published. His literary
3733powers proved of great value in arranging the writings of his master and
3734defending him from calumny. Subsequently Ramsay became teacher to some
3735of the Pretender’s family; and there is an interesting story on record
3736telling how the friendship of Fénelon stood him in good stead at Oxford
3737some years after, showing how in England the good archbishop’s virtues
3738attracted highest esteem and his name had more influence than even in
3739France itself. In 1730 Ramsay came to England under a safe conduct, and
3740was received as a member of the Royal Institution on the strength of his
3741connection with the Archbishop of Cambrai. He further desired to take
3742the Doctor’s Degree at Oxford. The Earl of Arran, then chancellor of the
3743university, proposed him for that honor. Opposition arose in Convocation
3744on the double ground that he was a Roman Catholic and had been a servant
3745of the Pretender; but the opposition ceased when Dr. King, head of St.
3746Mary’s Hall, observed, “I present to you a pupil of the illustrious
3747Fénelon, and this title is a sufficient guarantee to us.” Ramsay was
3748admitted to his degree by a vote of 85 to 17.
3749
3750Another Britisher, the eccentric Earl of Peterboro, in whom the hero,
3751skeptic, and profligate were mingled in about equal proportions, being
3752among the visitors to Marlborough’s headquarters in the Netherlands
3753during the war, turned aside to Cambrai to make its master’s
3754acquaintance. He could have had very little sympathy with the saintly
3755Mystic there, but he could no more resist his charm than could other
3756men. He wrote subsequently to the philosopher, John Locke, that Fénelon
3757“was cast in a particular mold that was never used for anybody else. He
3758is a delicious creature, but I was forced to cut away from him as fast
3759as I could, else he would have made me pious.” He is also reported to
3760have written while there, “On my word, I must quit this place as soon as
3761possible, for if I stay here another week I shall be a Christian in
3762spite of myself.”
3763
3764Count Munich, afterwards known as Marshal Munich, one of the most
3765distinguished commanders in the armies of Russia, when young was a
3766lieutenant-colonel in the forces contending in Flanders. Being taken
3767prisoner in battle and conducted to Cambrai, he was deeply affected by
3768what he saw of the peaceful mind and truly Christian generosity of
3769Fénelon. In all the vicissitudes of his after life, in court and camp,
3770he delighted to the very end of his stormy career to remember the happy
3771days which he passed as a prisoner or ward in the society of Fénelon. He
3772found the recounting of the things he had witnessed at Cambrai a help in
3773soothing the agitations of his own wild and turbulent spirit and a means
3774of permanent instruction in righteousness.
3775
3776The celebrated Cardinal Quirini, whose life was devoted to learned
3777researches and useful studies, and who visited all parts of Europe in
3778the prosecution of literary purposes, speaks in the following language
3779of his interview with Fénelon: “I considered Cambrai as one of the
3780principal objects of my travels in France. I will not hesitate to
3781confess that it was toward this single spot, or rather towards the
3782celebrated Fénelon, who resided there, that I was powerfully attracted.
3783With what emotions of tenderness I still recall the gentle and affecting
3784familiarity with which that great man deigned to discourse with me, and
3785even sought my conversation; though his palace was then crowded with
3786French generals and commanders-in-chief, towards whom he displayed the
3787most magnificent and generous hospitality. I have still fresh in my
3788recollection all the serious and important subjects which were the
3789topics of our discourse. My ear caught with eagerness every word that
3790issued from his lips. The letters which he wrote me from time to time
3791are still before me; letters which are an evidence alike of the wisdom
3792of his principles and of the purity of his heart. I preserve them among
3793my papers as the most precious treasure which I have in the world.”
3794
3795His enemies, we are told, practiced the shameful artifice of placing
3796about him an ecclesiastic of high birth whom he considered only as one
3797of his grand vicars, but who was to act as a spy upon him. The man who
3798had consented to take so base an office had, however, the magnanimity to
3799punish himself for it. Utterly subdued by the purity and gentleness of
3800spirit that he witnessed in Fénelon, he threw himself at his feet and
3801confessed the unworthy part he had been led to act, and withdrew from
3802the world to conceal in retirement his grief and shame.
3803
3804As will be inferred from these incidents his hospitality to those who
3805came to him from all parts of Europe, as well as from near by, was
3806unbounded. In spite of the urgency and multiplicity of his employments
3807he was always ready, with the greatest kindness of feeling, to pay the
3808utmost attention to all who had the slightest claim upon his time. He
3809did not hesitate to drop his eloquent pen, with which he conversed with
3810all Europe, whenever Providence called him to listen to the awkward
3811utterances of the most ignorant and degraded among his people. His
3812practice and his preference was to suffer any personal inconvenience, or
3813sacrifice any private interest, rather than injure the feelings of a
3814fellow-man or omit an opportunity of usefulness. Writing to a friend
3815about his daily routine he says: “I must confer with the Chapter on a
3816lawsuit; I must write and dispatch letters; I must examine accounts. How
3817dreary would be life made up of these perplexities and details but for
3818the will of God which glorifies all He has given us to do!” This is the
3819keynote on which Fénelon toned and tuned his life at Cambrai, making
3820himself the servant of all, ministering rather than being ministered
3821unto, glorying in the honor of such services, fearful of the outward
3822pomps the Church conferred upon him, yet accepting them in all
3823simplicity because he fully believed the Church to be directed by his
3824Master.
3825
3826“I have seen him,” says the Chevalier Ramsay, “in the course of a single
3827day, converse with the great and speak their language, ever maintaining
3828the episcopal dignity; afterwards discourse with the simple and the
3829little, like a good father instructing his children. This sudden
3830transition from one extreme to the other, was without affectation or
3831effort, like one who, by the extensiveness of his genius, reaches to all
3832the most opposite distances. I have often observed him at such
3833conferences, and have as much admired the evangelical condescension by
3834which he became all things to all men as the sublimity of his
3835discourses. While he watched over his flock with a daily care, he prayed
3836in the deep retirement of internal solitude. The many things which were
3837generally admired in him were nothing in comparison of that divine life
3838by which he walked with God like Enoch, and was unknown to men.”
3839
3840The Abbé Galet, another of Fénelon’s contemporaries, bears loud witness
3841to the fact that, however grand the outside accommodations were, the
3842archbishop’s personal appointments were of the most modest description.
3843He says that “in the meager simplicity of his private living rooms,
3844fitted up plainly in serge, of his dress—a long velvet cassock trimmed
3845with scarlet, but without gold tassels or lace—even of his
3846ecclesiastical vestments, Fénelon did homage to that idea of holy
3847poverty whose actual practice was forbidden by his station in the
3848world.”
3849
3850But when it came to others, Fénelon was very considerate and very
3851generous. When he had cause to send his chaplains into the country on
3852any business of the diocese, it was always in one of his own carriages
3853and with one of his own attendants, that the respect which he showed
3854them might conciliate to them the general respect of his flock. He took,
3855so far as possible, the burdens of his clergy on himself, offered to pay
3856more tax than he needed to, even wasted (as it would now seem) money on
3857beggars whose appearance moved his sympathies. Yet he also practiced
3858sound economy, that he might have the more to give, held a careful audit
3859of his household accounts, and set aside large portions of his income
3860for the starving soldiers, or the interests of his seminary, or the
3861education of his nephews and their maintenance in the army. He educated
3862great numbers of students at his own expense, sending them to Paris;
3863especially the young men that were likely to prove good priests, but
3864were too poor to bear the financial burden. He had always a whole string
3865of his nephews and grandnephews or other relatives gathered about him,
3866young people whose education he was asked to take charge of or those
3867whose interests, for friends’ or relationship’s sake, he was desirous to
3868promote. He was never without the presence of children in the palace. A
3869suite of rooms above his own was reserved for them. Not only his
3870relatives, but the sons of his intimate friends, were placed in his
3871care, that he might train them to be good and chivalrous gentlemen. Very
3872few of these boys were intended for the priesthood, but the confidence
3873that Fénelon inspired was so great that it was believed a child reared
3874under his eye would be better fitted for court or camp than if he spent
3875his early years in the company of princes at St. Germain or Versailles.
3876The last of his little guests were the grandchildren of his friend, De
3877Chevreuse, and, harassed though he was by national disasters, he could
3878spare time to study and report upon them and express his pleasure in
3879their company. He wrote of the children, “I delight to have them here; I
3880love them dearly; they cheer me much; they do not trouble me in any
3881way.” They were with him to the end; so that from the day he entered on
3882his duties at Versailles until his death he may be said to have given a
3883definite proportion of his time and energy to the practical
3884demonstration of his excellent theories of education.
3885
3886During the contest for the Spanish succession, in the early years of the
3887eighteenth century, between France and Bavaria on the one side, and
3888England, Holland, and Austria on the other, the diocese of Cambrai, not
3889far from the Netherlands, which has sometimes been denominated the
3890battle-field of Europe, was within the realm of war, and suffered much
3891from the cruel ravages of the advancing and retreating armies. Under
3892these circumstances, Fénelon continued his constant visitations to every
3893part of the district, and all the writers dwell upon the singular marks
3894of homage paid on these occasions to his eminent virtue by people of
3895every name. So far from putting any obstacle in his way, the English,
3896Germans, and Dutch took every means of showing their admiration and
3897veneration for the archbishop. All distinctions of religion and sect,
3898all those feelings of hatred or jealousy which divide nations,
3899disappeared in his presence. He was often obliged to resort to artifice
3900to avoid the honors which the armies of the enemy intended him. He
3901refused the military escorts which were offered him for his personal
3902security in the exercise of his functions, and, with no other attendants
3903than a few ecclesiastics, he traversed the countries desolated by war.
3904His way was marked by his alms and benefactions, and by a suspending of
3905the calamities which armies bring. In these short intervals the people
3906breathed in peace, so that his pastoral visits might be termed a truce
3907of God. The Duke of Marlborough, the Prince of Orange, the Duke of
3908Ormond, the distinguished commanders who were opposed to France,
3909embraced every opportunity of showing their esteem. They sent
3910detachments of their men to guard his meadows and his corn; they caused
3911his grain to be transported with a convoy to Cambrai, lest it should be
3912seized and carried off by their own foragers. St. Simon, by no means his
3913friend, can not say enough in panegyric for his never-ending kindness to
3914the troops brought through Cambrai during the war. The duke paints him
3915as moving among the sick and the whole, the known and the unknown, the
3916officers and the common soldiers, with a knowledge of the world which
3917understood how to gain them all by treating each in his due degree, and
3918yet a true and cheerful shepherd of their souls, as constant in his
3919ministration to the humblest as though he had no other business in life.
3920And he was no less careful for their bodily comfort; lodged officers
3921innumerable in his palace; hired other houses besides for the same
3922purpose; filled them with the sick and wounded, and with poor people
3923driven from the neighboring villages; tended the sick with his own
3924hands, sometimes for many months, until their entire recovery; supplied
3925the hospitals with costly drugs and endless streams of food and
3926delicacies, sent out, for all their abundance, in such perfect order
3927that every patient had exactly what he needed. He was on the best of
3928terms with the nobles and government officials, not only of his diocese
3929but of all Flanders, even as far as Brussels, and used his influence
3930with them to beg many temporal favors for his people; got his village
3931schoolmasters exempted from service in the army, saved the farmers and
3932their horses from forced labors in the winter, and even warned the
3933Ministry at Paris that the devastated country could be the theater of no
3934more campaigns. When the commissariat of the king was in extreme want of
3935corn, the archbishop emptied his immense granaries for their
3936subsistence, and absolutely refused all compensation. He said, “The king
3937owes me nothing, and in times of calamity it is my duty as a citizen and
3938a bishop to give back to the State what I have received from it.” It was
3939thus he avenged himself for his disgrace. At another critical moment,
3940only a timely advance from his own purse prevented the garrison of St.
3941Omer from going over in a body to the enemy, as other unpaid regiments
3942had done. It is no wonder that he became the idol of the troops, who
3943sang his praises even in the antechambers of Versailles. And his fame
3944stood equally high with those who were fighting against the king.
3945
3946He was loved by so many because he was himself so full of love. An
3947instance of his largeness both of mind and heart occurred during these
3948closing years, which deserves to be recorded, for it certainly does not
3949stand alone. The English prince known as the Old Pretender was an
3950officer in the French army in 1709, and his duty took him near to
3951Cambrai. In the conversations which passed between them, the archbishop
3952recommended to him very emphatically never to compel his subjects to
3953change their religion. “Liberty of thought,” said he, “is an impregnable
3954fortress which no human power can force. Violence can never convince; it
3955only makes hypocrites. When kings take it upon them to direct in matters
3956of religion instead of protecting it, they bring it into bondage. You
3957ought therefore to grant to all a legal toleration; not as approving
3958everything indifferently, but as suffering with patience what God
3959suffers; endeavoring in a proper manner to restore such as are misled,
3960but never by any measures but those of gentle and benevolent
3961persuasion.”
3962
3963Even against the Jansenists, who were fierce Augustinians, the ultra
3964Calvinists of that time in the matter of the Divine decrees, and whom he
3965thoroughly disliked, being himself a firm friend of free will, he would
3966by no means have harsh measures taken. The sweetness of his disposition
3967and his idea of the meekness of God, made him strongly averse to the
3968doctrines of Quesnel and Jansen, which he considered as leading to
3969despair. “God,” he said, “is to them only a terrible Being; to me He is
3970a Being good and just. I can not consent to make Him a tyrant who binds
3971us with fetters, and then commands us to walk, and punishes us if we do
3972not.” In this he was at one with John Wesley. But he would not, any more
3973than the Methodist, permit persecution of them in his diocese. “Let us,”
3974said he, “be to them what they are unwilling that God should be to man,
3975full of compassion and indulgence.” He was told that the Jansenists were
3976his declared enemies, that they left nothing undone to bring him and his
3977doctrine into discredit. “That is one further reason,” said he, “for me
3978to suffer and forgive them.”
3979
3980On hearing that some peasants in Hainaut, who were descended from
3981Protestants, and who held still the same opinions, had received the
3982sacrament from a minister of their own persuasion, but that, when
3983discovered, they disguised their sentiments and even went to mass, he
3984said to the Reformed minister: “Brother, you see what has happened. It
3985is full time that these good people should have some fixed religion; go
3986and obtain their names, and those of all their families; I give you my
3987word that in less than six months they shall all have passports”—that
3988is, to go where they like. The same clergyman, whose name was Brunice,
3989he received at his table as a brother, and treated him with great
3990kindness.
3991
3992To an officer of the army who consulted him to know what course he
3993should adopt with such of his soldiers as were Huguenots, Fénelon
3994answered: “Tormenting and teasing heretic soldiers into conversion, will
3995answer no end; it will not succeed; it will only produce hypocrites. The
3996converts so made will desert in crowds.”
3997
3998The closing years of Fénelon’s life were inexpressibly saddened by the
3999number of deaths that swept away in melancholy succession nearly all
4000with whom his heartstrings were most closely intertwined. The first to
4001go was his very dear friend Langeron, who died at Cambrai, November 10,
40021710. He probably held a deeper measure of his love than any one else,
4003possessed his entire confidence, which was never in the least degree
4004shaken by mutual disagreement and reproof. He chose him for a coadjutor
4005on the mission to Saintonge, shared with him the loving care of the
4006little prince, to whom he was reader, kept him with him at Cambrai as
4007one of his chief assistants and a principal amelioration of the bonds
4008which tied him there. Three days after the death he wrote: “I have lost
4009the greatest comfort of my life, and the best laborer God has given me
4010in the service of His Church, a friend who has been my delight for
4011thirty-four years. O, how full of sorrow life is! O God, how much our
4012best friends cost us! The only solace of life is friendship, and
4013friendship turns into irreparable grief. Let us seek the Friend who does
4014not die, in whom we shall recover all the rest. Nothing could be deeper
4015or truer than the virtues of him who has died. Nothing could be a
4016greater witness of grace than was his death. I have never seen anything
4017more lovely and edifying.... God’s will is done. He chose to seek my
4018friend’s happiness rather than my comfort; and I should be wanting alike
4019to God and my friend, if I did not will what He wills. In the sharpest
4020moment of my grief I offered up him I so dreaded to lose.”
4021
4022Still keener, in some respects, was the loss he experienced in the death
4023of the Duke of Burgundy, who passed away February 18, 1712. The ties
4024between them were of the closest description, and the long separation of
4025fifteen years had made no difference in their mutual affection. When the
4026young man—fifteen years old at the time of Fénelon’s banishment in
40271697—heard of the sad event, he ran to his grandfather and flung himself
4028at his feet, and implored with tears his clemency, and as a proof of
4029Fénelon’s doctrine appealed to the change in his own conduct and
4030character. Louis was deeply affected, but said that what he solicited
4031was not a matter of favor; it concerned the purity of the Church, of
4032which Bossuet was the best judge. All intercourse between the two was
4033interdicted, and as both were closely watched by spies, it was four
4034years before the slightest communication could pass between them. Then
4035the duke contrived to send a letter in which he declared his unshaken
4036love, saying that indeed his friendship but increased with time, and
4037that he was proceeding more steadily than before in the path of virtue.
4038When, in 1702, Louis gave the Duke of Burgundy command of the army in
4039Flanders, he petitioned with great earnestness that he might be allowed
4040in his passage to the army to see Fénelon. The king consented only on
4041condition that the interview should be in public. They met at a public
4042dinner, where, of course, but little could be said, as everything was
4043closely watched. But the duke in a loud voice exclaimed, in the hearing
4044of all present, “I am sensible, my Lord Archbishop, what I owe to you,
4045and you know what I am.” Fénelon writes concerning the interview as
4046follows: “I have seen the Duke of Burgundy after five years’ separation,
4047but God seasoned the consolation with great bitterness. I saw him only
4048in public for a short quarter of an hour. One must take things as they
4049come and give one’s self up unreservedly to God’s providence.” After
4050this, there was opportunity for a more frequent correspondence, and it
4051is most creditable to both parties, filled with affection and
4052profoundest deference on the part of the younger man, and with the
4053deepest solicitude and wisest counsels on the part of the elder.
4054
4055The duke’s father, the dauphin, or heir apparent, died in April, 1711,
4056leaving, of course, his son as next in the succession to the throne.
4057Then, indeed, did Fénelon’s hopes and the hopes of the nation rise high.
4058Cambrai became thronged with people who thought it well to be in the
4059good graces of one who might very soon be the power behind the throne
4060and the most important man in France. But alas! alas for human plans and
4061prospects! The dauphine, Burgundy’s wife, died February 12th, of a
4062strange malady which baffled all the physicians; then the duke himself,
4063having caught the infection, died February 18th, and their eldest son
4064succumbed to the same complaint, March 18th. The royal household was
4065overwhelmed, the nation was stunned, and no one felt the loss more than,
4066probably no one as much as, Fénelon. He writes: “I am struck down with
4067grief; the shock has made me ill without any malady. My health has
4068suffered terribly, and whatever revives my grief brings on a certain
4069amount of feverish agitation. I am humbled by my weakness. All my links
4070are broken; there is nothing left to bind me to earth; but the ties
4071which bind me to heaven are strengthened. O, what suffering this true
4072friendship breeds! But if I could restore him to life by turning a straw
4073I would not do it, for it is God’s will.” It was undoubtedly the darkest
4074hour of his days. He never wholly rallied from the blow, or took the
4075same interest in his labors that he did before. But there is the best of
4076evidence that his faith in God did not fail, and that in all the
4077suffering, both for himself and for his country, around which the
4078gloomiest shadows seemed now to be gathering, he had no thought of the
4079Almighty unworthy of his goodness.
4080
4081In November, 1712, died another most dearly loved and life-long friend,
4082the Duke of Chevreuse, opening up all his wounds afresh, as he says; but
4083he adds, “God be praised, be it ours to adore his impenetrable
4084purposes!” In August, 1714, Fénelon lost the last of that special group
4085who had stuck to him more closely than brothers, the Duke de
4086Beauvilliers. They had never met since he left Versailles, but their
4087hearts were most closely knit. “Our best friends,” he wrote, “are the
4088source of our greatest sorrow and bitterness. One is tempted to say that
4089all good friends should wait and die on the same day. Friendship will be
4090the cause of my death.”
4091
4092It was to be even so. His frame was feeble, and these fierce attacks
4093affected him severely. In the following November a carriage accident
4094entailed another shock to his system, from which he had not strength to
4095recover. In the month that followed, his friends recognized that he was
4096failing visibly. On the first of January he was attacked by a sharp
4097fever, and it began to be evident that the end was near. For the whole
4098of the six days that remained to him on earth he permitted only the
4099reading of the Holy Scriptures. Over and over they read to him 2 Cor. iv
4100and v, especially the part about the “building of God, the house not
4101made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” “Repeat that again,” he said
4102more than once. Other texts of Scripture particularly suited to his
4103condition were read to him again and again. He would try to repeat them
4104himself with a failing voice, while his eyes and his whole countenance
4105were lighted up with a bright expression of faith and love which the
4106sacred words inspired. Several times he asked those around to repeat St.
4107Martin’s dying words, “Lord, if I am yet necessary to Thy people I
4108refuse not labor; Thy will be done.”
4109
4110On the morning of the 4th he took the blessed sacrament, being carried
4111into the large state bedchamber for the purpose, and gathering about him
4112his attendants, to whom he spoke a few farewell words of tender
4113exhortation. On the 6th he received extreme unction, as one about to
4114depart. And immediately after, bidding every one, save his chaplain,
4115leave the room, summoning all his strength, he dictated to him a few
4116lines addressed to Père Lachaise, the king’s confessor. Being thus about
4117to appear before God, he said: “I have never felt aught save docility to
4118the Church and abhorrence of the novelties attributed to me. I accepted
4119the condemnation of my book with the most absolute unreserve. There
4120never was a moment in my life when I did not entertain the liveliest
4121gratitude and most honest zeal for the king’s person, as also the most
4122inviolable respect and attachment. I wish long life for His Majesty, of
4123whom both Church and State have so great need. If it be permitted me to
4124come before the presence of God, I will continually ask this of Him.” He
4125makes in the letter two requests of the king, neither of them for
4126himself or his family: First, that he will appoint to Cambrai a pious,
4127worthy, orthodox prelate; and secondly, that he will allow the Cambrai
4128seminary to be intrusted to the Sulpician Fathers to whom he owed so
4129much. The rest of that day and the night following he had much agony,
4130and, in a feeble, broken voice, said many times, “Thy will, not mine.”
4131He was surrounded by those who loved him best, his two favorite nephews,
4132the Abbé de Beaumont and the Marquis de Fénelon, arriving in haste from
4133Paris. He gave them all his blessing as long as he could speak. He
4134passed away peacefully, amid the tears of all around, at quarter past
4135five in the morning; aged sixty-three years, five months, and one day.
4136
4137He was buried in the cathedral of Cambrai, with every tribute of honor
4138and respect, but with all simplicity and without ostentation, as he
4139himself directed. In his will, dated May 5, 1705, he wrote, after
4140declaring that he cherished no thought concerning those who had attacked
4141him save those of prayer and brotherly love: “I wish my burial to be in
4142the metropolitical church at Cambrai, as simple as may be, and with the
4143least possible expenditure. This is not a mere conventional expression
4144of humility, but because I think the money laid out on funerals other
4145than simple had better be kept for more useful purposes; and also I
4146think the modesty of a bishop’s funeral should set the example to the
4147laity and lead them to diminish useless outlay in their burial
4148arrangements.” The last clause says: “While I love my family deeply, and
4149am aware of the needy state of their affairs, I do not think it right to
4150leave anything to them. Ecclesiastical property is not meant to support
4151family wants, and should not pass out of the hands of those who minister
4152in the Church.” It was found, when his affairs were settled up, that
4153after administering for twenty years the great income of his office,
4154which was at his own absolute disposal, he ended a life of persistent
4155and rigorous self-denial with no money in his coffers, and no debts to
4156any man. His public and private life had been ruled by the fundamental
4157principle which he did not fear to proclaim again and again as his
4158conception of truest patriotism: “I love my family better than myself; I
4159love my country better than my family; I love the human race better than
4160my country.” All his days declared, also, that he loved God best of all.
4161
4162He stood for union with the Divine. He lived ever in the eye of the
4163All-Searcher. All his thoughts and actions had been ruled by the purpose
4164to be perfectly pleasing unto Him. He had, no doubt, failed at some
4165points. He was ever ready to confess it, and lament his weaknesses; for
4166he was human. But not many of mortal frame ever kept more steadily
4167before them from youth to age the high endeavor to be as much as
4168possible like Christ. Neither disgrace nor disappointment daunted him.
4169The failure of earthly ambitions only impressed on him the more that he
4170had a message for mankind that was above such things. And though there
4171were probably not many in his generation that were ready to receive his
4172lofty words, though there are even now not many who are prepared to
4173accept fully his sublime teachings and follow him as he followed the
4174Master, yet there will always be an inward witness in the hearts of some
4175of every age that responds to such voices, and leaps with joy at the
4176summons to put everything away, that God may take full possession of His
4177own. He was absorbed in the hot pursuit of highest holiness. On this his
4178strength was concentrated. Only thus did he attain the success that was
4179vouchsafed him. The spiritual life was to him the only real life. The
4180Presence Divine was ever with him. The Spirit of God filled his heart.
4181
4182During the outrages of the French Revolution, in 1793, when the graves
4183of the dead were being brutally violated by order of the government with
4184wanton cruelty and savage merriment, and the bodies of the great and
4185noble, the learned and pious, were being scattered to the four winds, an
4186order from government reached Cambrai directing that all the leaden
4187coffins that were there be sent to the arsenal at Douay to be converted
4188into instruments of warfare. The agents proceeded to the Metropolitan
4189Cathedral, entered the vault under the altar, took away the bodies of
4190others, but left the remains of Fénelon; not designedly, it would seem,
4191for they had no veneration for the talents and virtues of the
4192illustrious prelate; not accidentally, for what men call chance is only
4193the providence of God. It was the counsel of unerring wisdom that issued
4194the commission, “Touch not mine anointed and do my prophet no harm.”
4195There are official documents describing the finding of the body
4196afterwards by the mayor of Cambrai. The remains, in a fair state of
4197preservation, were reverently sealed up and replaced in the vault. In
41981800 the Emperor Napoleon ordered that “a monument or mausoleum be
4199erected to receive the ashes of the immortal Fénelon;” to which they
4200were to be transferred in due time. This was probably not carried out,
4201as the existing monument to Fénelon is in the new cathedral of the date
4202of 1825. But his chief monument is in the hearts of men, in the
4203veneration and affection felt for him by the whole of Christ’s Church
4204without distinction of name, and in the gratitude of the many, many
4205souls who have been helped on their heavenward journey by his strong,
4206wise words and beautiful example.
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211                              CHAPTER VII.
4212                         THE SPIRITUAL LETTERS.
4213
4214
4215It is fitting that we conclude this sketch of Fénelon with some account
4216of his writings, because it is so largely through them that he lives
4217today. The most complete collection of his works, issued from Paris
4218between 1820 and 1830, is in thirty-four volumes, 8vo, of which eleven
4219volumes are given to the correspondence. Many of these literary labors
4220have been translated into English; for instance, the treatise on the
4221“Education of Daughters,” the “Dialogues on Eloquence,” the
4222“Demonstration of the Existence of God,” and the “Spiritual Letters.”
4223The last has by far the greatest importance at the present time, has
4224indeed an importance for all time. But before taking it up, a few words
4225concerning some of his other productions will be in place.
4226
4227While he was superior at the institution for the New Catholics, in 1687
4228or 1688, he wrote a treatise on the authority of the priesthood or the
4229dogma of the Apostolical Succession, of course defending it; which
4230established his reputation as a writer, and attracted the notice of the
4231king. Much more important was his work on the “Education of Girls;” this
4232has been sufficiently dwelt upon in the first chapter. A treatise on the
4233“Existence of God” was begun in these earlier years, but leisure did not
4234seem to be found for its full development. Even the first part was not
4235published till 1712, and the second did not see the light until three
4236years after his death. It is of little value now, but it made a strong
4237impression on the metaphysical philosophers of the eighteenth century,
4238and is especially praised by Thomas Reid. His “Dialogues on Eloquence,”
4239with special reference to that of the pulpit (an admirable treatise on
4240oratory), was not published at all until after his death; neither was
4241his “Refutation of Malebranche,” his “Letters to the King,” treatise on
4242the “Authority of the Sovereign Pontiff,” “Questions for
4243Self-Examination on the Duties of a King,” “Letters on Religion” to the
4244Duke of Orleans, “Plans of Government,” and “Letter to the Academy.” The
4245latter, written a few months before his death, constitutes his answer to
4246the chief literary questions of his age, and treats more especially of
4247the controversy between the Classic and Romantic Schools. He was a
4248thoroughgoing Classicist, an Ancient of the Ancients, insisting on the
4249study of Greek as a panacea for most literary diseases. He has also in
4250the letter a chapter on the “Art of Writing History,” making symmetry
4251the first requirement, and impartiality next. In his eyes a history was
4252a work of art, with something in it of the epic poem. He suggested,
4253furthermore, that the Academy should devote itself to a detailed
4254examination of the standard works in the French language, and prepare
4255popular editions with notes.
4256
4257All Fénelon’s writings, it may be said, show much grandeur and delicacy
4258of sentiment, great fertility of genius, a correct taste, and excited
4259sensibility. A poetical character appears in them all. By assiduous
4260study the works of the best writers of antiquity were familiar to him,
4261and his intimate acquaintance with their productions furnished him a
4262resource in every vicissitude of life; they were his ornament in
4263prosperity, his comfort in adversity. The charm of his manner in society
4264is largely communicated to the products of his pen. They abound in
4265passages of splendor and pathos, but their chief excellence is in their
4266tender simplicity, by which the reader’s heart is irresistibly drawn to
4267the writer.
4268
4269Of much higher rank in a literary point of view than any of those
4270previously mentioned was his “Adventures of Telemachus; or, The
4271Education of a Prince.” It is a fabulous narrative in the form of a
4272heroic poem, in which he sets down the truths most necessary to be known
4273by one about to reign; and the faults that cling most closely to
4274sovereign power are also fully described. It was composed by Fénelon
4275while he was preceptor to the royal dukes, and designed exclusively for
4276their instruction; “written at chance moments, hurriedly, and piece by
4277piece,” says the author, “sent to the press by an unfaithful copyist,
4278and never intended for the world.” He insisted that he did not borrow
4279from real persons, or sketch in the characters of his own time. This was
4280undoubtedly true; but no human power could convince Louis XIV that it
4281was so, and the unauthorized publication of it in 1698, just when the
4282Quietist controversy was at its height, was extremely unfortunate for
4283Fénelon, and filled the king’s cup of wrath to overflowing. He had been
4284more than sufficiently embittered before, but after this there was not
4285the slightest hope of reconciliation; for the book is an idealistic
4286portrayal of a commonwealth where virtue has its own again, where there
4287is no tyranny, where the king is the father of all his people and the
4288chief servant of the State, where duty is lifted far above rights, and
4289justice is supreme. Since nothing could be more opposite to all this
4290than the character and conduct of King Louis, it is no wonder that he
4291took it as a personal insult and a deliberate satire. In every part of
4292it disrespectful mention is made of ambition, of extensive conquests, of
4293military fame, of magnificence, and of almost everything else which
4294Louis considered as the glory of his reign. While the author must be
4295acquitted of any intention to affront the monarch, which would have been
4296most ungrateful and most ridiculous, it is evident that he must have had
4297unconsciously in mind the principal actors in the scenes around him, was
4298wholly out of sympathy with them, and was training the young princes on
4299a totally different model. The book, suppressed, of course, in Paris,
4300was brought out at once in Holland, and became everywhere the rage,
4301immensely popular all over Europe, and, even to the present day, much
4302read. It has stood the test of two centuries of existence, has been
4303translated into many languages, and has made his name familiar to those
4304whom he could not otherwise have touched. Nevertheless, the effect of
4305its publication on his fortunes at that time was exceedingly disastrous,
4306and his enemies made the utmost use of it against him.
4307
4308“The Explanation of the Maxims of the Saints on the Interior Life,” and
4309the great part it played in Fénelon’s career has been already referred
4310to in a previous chapter. The reader will enjoy getting a little fuller
4311idea of its contents. Dr. T. C. Upham devoted forty-five pages to
4312summarizing, in a free translation, the forty-five articles constituting
4313the book, and the following extracts are taken from his work, now out of
4314print:
4315
4316“Pure love is mixed love carried to its true result. When this result is
4317attained, the motive of God’s glory so expands itself, and so fills the
4318mind, that the other motive, that of our own happiness, becomes so small
4319and so recedes from our inward notice as to be _practically_
4320annihilated. It is then that God becomes what He ever ought to be,—the
4321center of the soul, to which all its affections tend; the great moral
4322sun of the soul, from which all its light and all its warmth proceed. It
4323is then that a man thinks no more of himself. He has become the man of a
4324single eye. His own happiness and all that regards himself are entirely
4325lost sight of, in his simple and fixed look to God’s will and God’s
4326glory.”
4327
4328“When the sun shines the stars disappear. When God is in the soul, who
4329can think of himself? So that we love God and God alone; and all other
4330things _in_ and _for_ God.”
4331
4332“The second state, which follows that of holy resignation, is that of
4333holy _indifference_. Such a soul not only desires and wills in
4334submission, but absolutely ceases either to desire or to will, except in
4335co-operation with the Divine leading. Its desires for itself, as it has
4336greater light, are more completely and permanently merged in the one
4337higher and more absorbing desire of God’s glory, and the fulfillment of
4338His will. It desires and wills, therefore, only what God desires and
4339wills.”
4340
4341“Holy indifference is not inactivity. It is the furthest possible from
4342it. It is indifference to anything and everything out of God’s will; but
4343it is the highest life and activity to everything in that will.”
4344
4345“One of the principles in the doctrine of holy living is, that we should
4346not be premature in drawing the conclusion that the process of inward
4347crucifixion is complete, and that our abandonment to God is without any
4348reservation whatever. The act of consecration, which is a sort of
4349incipient step, may be sincere; but the reality of the consecration in
4350the full extent to which we suppose it to exist, and which may properly
4351be described as abandonment or entire self-renunciation, can be known
4352only when God has applied the appropriate tests. We can not know whether
4353we have renounced ourselves, except by being tried on those very points
4354to which our self-renunciation relates. The trial will show whether or
4355not we are wholly the Lord’s. Those who prematurely draw the conclusion
4356that they are so, expose themselves to great illusion and injury.”
4357
4358“Those in the highest state of religious experience desire nothing
4359except that God may be glorified in them by the accomplishment of His
4360holy will.”
4361
4362“Their continual life of love, which refers everything to God, and
4363identifies everything with His will, is essentially a life of continual
4364prayer.”
4365
4366“The will of God is their ultimate and only rule of action.”
4367
4368“The most advanced souls are those which are most possessed with the
4369thoughts and the presence of Christ.”
4370
4371“The soul in the state of pure love acts in simplicity. Its inward rule
4372of action is found in the decisions of a sanctified judgment. These
4373decisions, based upon judgments that are free from self-interest, may
4374not always be _absolutely_ right, because our views and judgments, being
4375limited, can extend only to things in part; but they may be said to be
4376_relatively_ right; they conform to things so far as we are permitted to
4377see them and understand them, and convey to the soul a moral assurance
4378that, when we act in accordance with them, we are doing as God would
4379have us do.”
4380
4381We come now to the “Spiritual Letters,” which have been called, not
4382unadvisedly, “the most perfect things of their kind anywhere to be
4383found.” They were written to a very large number of correspondents, both
4384men and women, on the impulse of the moment, and without the least
4385thought of publication. Hence they become all the more the most
4386authentic revelation of his inmost mind, a necessary and integral part
4387of his character. He wrote as he would have spoken, suiting himself to
4388the knowledge of his hearers, aiming at simplicity rather than ornament,
4389but not disdaining homely similes so far as they will make his meaning
4390plain. He draws freely and constantly upon his own experience, so that
4391the letters are a reflection of himself, as well as a storehouse of
4392practical religion. Helpful counsel may be found in them for nearly all
4393situations in life and on nearly all topics that are most closely
4394connected with Christian living. For though the persons to whom he wrote
4395were usually in the higher circles—dukes, counts, lords, ladies,
4396soldiers, courtiers, and priests—nevertheless, they were always men and
4397women, wives and mothers, with human hearts and much the same
4398temptations to combat that come to common people in the present age. The
4399letters were written to meet the individual needs of very real persons,
4400written out of a warm heart and by a mind stored with the lore of the
4401Church on these subjects, as well as gifted with unusual powers of
4402discernment. Fénelon was a consummate director of consciences; he moved
4403through life heavily incumbered with the wants of others, carrying many
4404burdens and taxing all his great powers to meet the ever-recurring needs
4405of a multitude of perplexed and hungering spirits.
4406
4407Those who peruse the epistles will readily perceive that they present a
4408very high ideal, yet we do not think they can fairly be pronounced
4409harsh. He does not speak in a tone of asperity. He saw far into the
4410human heart, looked with a piercing eye through the disguises of sin,
4411could follow with unexampled clearness the turnings and twistings and
4412lurkings of selfishness. Though the severest of censors, he is at the
4413same time the most pitying. He regards human error with indulgent
4414tenderness, and weeps over it as Jesus wept over Jerusalem. Echoes of
4415the Stoic philosophers—Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Seneca—will
4416undoubtedly be found in these letters. Indeed, a very considerable and
4417rather curious parallel has been drawn between Fénelon and Seneca; which
4418only shows the permanence of the principles that regulate the union
4419between God and the soul under all skies and creeds. There is a close
4420similarity between these letters and those of Francis of Sales, who
4421wrote on the same themes; for the two saw eye to eye. The effusions of
4422either Francis, although adapted primarily to a different communion and
4423time, can be recommended almost unqualifiedly to-day to that small
4424class—it will always be a small class—who set themselves, with an
4425aroused intelligence, a high appreciation of the nature of the task
4426before them, and an intense determination, to realize, through all
4427available and appointed means, the closest possible approximation to
4428perfect union with the Divine.
4429
4430Our criticisms of Fénelon’s letters are but few, and yet a little note
4431of warning should undoubtedly be sounded. No one should read them who is
4432not prepared to think for himself, to use a vigorous common-sense, and
4433to select for entire observance only those precepts which commend
4434themselves to his mind as being in complete accord with the Scripture
4435and with the most judicious of other spiritual advisers. Almost
4436everything he finds will, we believe, thus commend itself. But there
4437will be an occasional use of language before which he will pause and
4438make a note of question or dissent. There will be unguarded expressions
4439which need explanation. Perhaps the chief words which he will find cause
4440to challenge will be those of most frequent occurrence—self and
4441self-love. Fénelon does not use these terms quite accurately, and
4442whoever takes them literally will be led into trouble. Where he says
4443self-love he almost always means selfishness, which, in our modern
4444nomenclature, is quite a different thing, being the inordinate,
4445excessive, or forbidden love of self, such a regard for the interests
4446and rights of self as disregards the interests and rights of other
4447people. This latter is always wrong, of course. But self-love, strictly
4448speaking, is in itself right, perfectly innocent, and of great
4449importance to retain. It is essential to our preservation and
4450prosperity, one of the most vital ingredients in our constitution.
4451Fénelon, we think, never recognizes this meaning of the word, never
4452seems to know that we have very important, imperative duties to self, as
4453well as to our neighbor and to God. Either he was not familiar with
4454these distinctions so common in ethics now, or he was so profoundly
4455impressed with the danger of overdoing self-love that he did not deem it
4456well to recognize this duty at all. But that surely is a mistake, and
4457with some minds tends to become a very harmful one, leading straight on
4458to fanaticism.
4459
4460He is never tired of insisting on the absolute necessity for the death
4461of self, the destruction of self. But this phrase will not stand
4462critical examination. The peril which always lurks in figures of speech,
4463and the tendency to exaggerate which so frequently besets devotional
4464writers of the intense mystic type, is very manifest here. Such writers
4465put forward their extreme statements with a laudable desire to make a
4466deep impression on the callous sensibilities of the average reader, and
4467with the idea, perhaps, that large deduction will be made in the
4468practical application of their precepts. But many find in this an excuse
4469for throwing the whole subject impatiently aside. We are convinced that
4470it is better in such things to state the exact truth with all
4471carefulness and with as few misleading figures of speech as possible.
4472There is certainly an ethical limit to our right of self-abnegation and
4473self-impartation. Benevolence has its moral bounds in holiness. A man’s
4474life finds its largest fulfillment, not in weakly assimilating itself to
4475the wishes of those around it, but in giving forth some new and
4476characteristic expression of the life of God. The notions, or even the
4477needs, of one’s neighbors are not the highest standard of right living.
4478Every man holds himself in trust for his Creator, and must do his best
4479to manifest that Creator, not necessarily according to the conception
4480most prevalent in his immediate circle, but according to the mandate
4481which has been laid on him. It is this thought which gives the
4482profoundest value to his existence and lifts him above too great
4483dependence on popular standards. And it is this thought, properly
4484carried out, which shows how much of unreason there is in the
4485declaration that self must be totally forgotten, renounced, annihilated.
4486
4487No person is justified in doing anything of this sort. Self-preservation
4488and self-protection, self-respect and self-esteem, self-defense and
4489self-development are manifest duties. It may readily be granted that
4490they are not in any great danger of neglect from the ordinary or average
4491individual. But the extraordinary individual, if wrongly instructed,
4492filled with a zeal not according to knowledge, keenly conscientious,
4493morbidly scrupulous, keyed up to an unnatural pitch and straining after
4494an impossible ideal, may do himself much harm and go far astray. To
4495overdo is often as bad as to underdo, and causes undoing.
4496
4497Denunciations of selfishness are always in order, but its boundaries are
4498not so easily defined. Self-love—the instinctive desire or tendency that
4499leads one to seek to promote his own well-being, a due care for one’s
4500own happiness, essential to high endeavor and perfectly compatible with
4501justice, generosity, and benevolence—is a component part of our nature,
4502and must be carefully safeguarded. To talk about its annihilation or
4503eradication is to talk foolishness; and to attempt such eradication is
4504to fly in the face of nature; that is, of God. The whole question, then,
4505between selfishness and self-love is one of degree and adjustment and
4506relative rights. No absolute hard-and-fast line can be drawn. One must
4507use his best judgment, enlightened from all possible sources, as to what
4508in any given case duty to self and duty to others demands. And that
4509judgment he must follow, even when it materially differs from the
4510opinion of those who may criticise his conduct. There is no virtue in
4511wasting one’s self on impossible tasks. Self-sacrifice is never ethical
4512if it be a willful spending of self to no purpose. One may do a serious
4513wrong to himself, and confer no real good on any one else, by following
4514the lead of generous, uncalculating, unthinking impulses. The
4515exhortation never to think about one’s self is thoroughly mischievous,
4516and can only lead to fanaticism and discouragement.
4517
4518Self-control, not self-annihilation or extirpation, is the duty of the
4519Christian. A man has perfect self-control when his highest powers hold
4520the lower in subjection with perfect ease, and are themselves in
4521complete harmony with the will of God. He is perfectly free from
4522selfishness who gives to self only that degree of attention and care
4523which is due, and in no way infringes on any of the rights of others.
4524And he who is keenly desirous of doing this, bearing in mind his natural
4525bias the wrong way, will deem it the safer course to go a little beyond
4526what may seem the due limit. But it is not selfish to be manly, or to
4527insist on being permitted to work out one’s calling according to the
4528clear, conscious summons from on high. Self-will so much inveighed
4529against is right, since it is a necessary component part of selfhood.
4530Without self-will and self-consciousness there can be no self; in other
4531words, we cease to be, and are non-existent. Masterfulness should be
4532distinguished from willfulness; the former is not sinful, but a most
4533desirable thing in this world where leadership is so essential to
4534progress. A selfish will, one at any point divergent from the will of
4535God, so far as we know or can ascertain, is always wrong. To tell where
4536egoism ends and altruism begins in our relations with our fellow-men is
4537far from easy; but it is ever blessed to become absorbed in a great
4538cause, and supremely noble to have as the highest object in life the
4539glory of God.
4540
4541Some exceptions must be taken to a few other extreme statements of
4542Fénelon, in which he follows other mistaken writers. The language of
4543such teachers on humility is overstrained and really false, likely to do
4544harm. Fénelon says, for example, “Those who are truly humble always take
4545the lowest place, rejoicing when they are despised, and considering
4546every one superior to themselves. We may judge of the advancement we
4547have in humility by the delight we have in humiliation and contempt.”
4548His motto was, “Ama nesciri”—Love to be unknown. Kempis wrote much of
4549this same sort. And John Fletcher of Madeley was constantly offering up
4550the prayer which we have in Charles Wesley’s couplet,
4551
4552  “Make me little and unknown,
4553  Loved and prized by God alone.”
4554
4555To desire to be despised, thought meanly of, accounted as naught, we can
4556not recognize as a fruit of grace in a healthy mind rightly apprehensive
4557of the vast importance to usefulness of a good reputation. To think of
4558ourselves more highly than we ought to think is wrong, but so is it
4559wrong to think of ourselves less highly than we ought. The truth above
4560all things, facts at any cost whether to ourselves or other people, is
4561the better attitude. No gain can come from falsity on the one side, any
4562more than on the other. To delight unspeakably in the will of God, even
4563when it involves contempt from those who misunderstand our position, is
4564not the same as delighting in contempt itself. To insist on the lowest
4565place when our recognized and lawful place is higher, would be neither
4566wise nor edifying. Fénelon himself took his proper place as archbishop
4567in the cathedral and palace and elsewhere, without diminution from his
4568humility. He showed the latter in his hospital work, and in his familiar
4569relations with those of lower rank.
4570
4571A little too much is made in some places of the importance of silence.
4572There is not sufficient recognition of the fact that some are in great
4573danger of speaking too little, that there are idle silences as well as
4574idle words. The stress laid upon listening to the interior voice is also
4575carried somewhat beyond bounds, and needs counterbalancing by the
4576warning that it is very easy to mistake the utterances of our own
4577spirits for those of the Spirit of God, the products of a vain
4578imagination for the products of Divine direction. Many have been sadly
4579misled at this point. We need not perhaps specify other strained and
4580unbalanced remarks. There are not many of them, and it would be unjust
4581to make too much of them; but it is also unsafe to ignore them
4582altogether. The letters are all the better in that they demand
4583reflection from the reader, and are not to be taken up in a wooden way
4584as though they were infallible. Properly perused, with prayer and
4585meditation, they can not fail to be of immense service to the inquiring
4586mind and the devotional spirit. There is nothing better as a stimulus to
4587those with lofty aspirations seeking for guidance as to how best they
4588may reach the heights.
4589
4590A few extracts from the letters, all that our space permits, are
4591furnished, that the reader’s appetite may be whetted for the feast to be
4592found in larger volumes. And we can not better close this unpretentious,
4593but we hope useful, little book than with some of the glowing paragraphs
4594that have already done so much good in the world, and are destined to do
4595so much more as the centuries roll:
4596
4597
4598                       Easy Ways of Divine Love.
4599
4600Christian perfection is not that rigorous, tedious, cramping thing that
4601many imagine. It demands only an entire surrender of everything to God,
4602from the depths of the soul; and the moment this takes place, whatever
4603is done for Him becomes easy. They who are God’s without reserve are in
4604every state content; for they will only what He wills, and desire to do
4605for Him whatever He desires them to do. They strip themselves of
4606everything, and in this nakedness find all things a hundred-fold. Peace
4607of conscience, liberty of spirit, the sweet abandonment of themselves
4608and theirs into the hands of God, the joy of perceiving the light always
4609increasing in their hearts, and, finally, the freedom of their souls
4610from the bondage of the fears and desires of this world,—these things
4611constitute that return of happiness which the true children of God
4612receive a hundred-fold in the midst of their crosses while they remain
4613faithful.
4614
4615What God requires of us is a will which is no longer divided between Him
4616and any creature; a simple pliable state of will, which desires what He
4617desires, rejects nothing but what He rejects, wills without reserve what
4618He wills, and under no pretext wills what He does not. In this state of
4619mind all things are proper for us; our amusements, even, are acceptable
4620in His sight.
4621
4622No matter what crosses may overwhelm the true child of God, he wills
4623everything that happens, and would not have anything removed that his
4624Father appoints; the more he loves God, the more is he filled with
4625content; and the most stringent perfection, far from being a burden,
4626only renders his yoke the lighter.
4627
4628
4629                          The Divine Presence.
4630
4631The true source of all our perfection is contained in the command of God
4632to Abraham, “Walk before me and be thou perfect.” (Gen. xvii, 1.) The
4633presence of God calms the soul, and gives it quiet and repose, even
4634during the day and in the midst of occupation; but we must be given up
4635to God without reserve.
4636
4637Whenever we perceive within us anxious desires for anything, whatever it
4638may be, and find that nature is hurrying us with too much haste to do
4639whatever is to be done, whether it be to say something, see something,
4640or do something, let us stop short and repress the precipitancy of our
4641thoughts and the agitation of our actions; for God has said that His
4642Spirit does not dwell in disquiet.
4643
4644An excellent means of preserving our interior solitude and liberty of
4645soul is to make it a rule to put an end at the close of every action to
4646all reflections upon it, all reflex acts of self-love, whether of a vain
4647joy or sorrow.
4648
4649Let us be accustomed to recollect ourselves, during the day and in the
4650midst of our occupations, by a simple view of God. Let us silence by
4651that means all the movements of our heart, when they appear in the least
4652agitated. Let us separate ourselves from all that does not come from
4653God. Let us suppress our superfluous thoughts and reveries. Let us utter
4654no useless word. Let us seek God within us, and we shall find Him
4655without fail, and with Him joy and peace.
4656
4657Let us be careful not to suffer ourselves to be overwhelmed by the
4658multiplicity of our exterior operations, be they what they may. Let us
4659endeavor to commence every enterprise with a pure view to the glory of
4660God, continue it without distraction, and finish it without impatience.
4661The intervals of relaxation and amusement are the most dangerous for us,
4662and perhaps the most useful for others; we must then be on our guard
4663that we be as faithful as possible to the presence of God. We can never
4664employ our leisure hours better than in refreshing our spiritual
4665strength by a secret and intimate communion with God. Prayer is so
4666necessary and the source of so many blessings, that he who has
4667discovered the treasure can not be prevented from having recourse to it
4668whenever he has an opportunity.
4669
4670
4671                             Independence.
4672
4673Do not suffer yourself to get excited by what is said about you. Let the
4674world talk. Do you strive to do the will of God; as for that of men, you
4675would never succeed in doing it to their satisfaction, and it is not
4676worth the pains.
4677
4678Let the water flow beneath the bridge. Let men be men; that is to say,
4679weak, vain, inconsistent, unjust, false, and presumptuous. Let the world
4680be the world still; you can not prevent it. Let every one follow his own
4681inclination and habits: you can not recast them, and the best course is
4682to let them be as they are and bear with them. Do not think it strange
4683when you witness unreasonableness and injustice; rest in peace in the
4684bosom of God: He sees it all more clearly than you do, and yet permits
4685it. Be content to do quietly and gently what it becomes you to do, and
4686let everything else be to you as though it were not.
4687
4688As long as the world is anything to us, so long our freedom is but a
4689word, and we are as easily captured as a bird whose leg is fastened by a
4690thread. He seems to be free; the string is not visible, but he can fly
4691only its length, and he is a prisoner.
4692
4693Do not be vexed at what people say. Let them speak while you endeavor to
4694do the will of God. A little silence, peace, and communion with God will
4695compensate you for all the injustice of men. We must love our
4696fellow-beings without depending on their friendship. They leave us, they
4697return, and they go from us again. Let them go or come; it is the
4698feather blown about by the wind. Fix your attention upon God alone in
4699your connection with them. It is He alone who, through them, consoles or
4700afflicts you.
4701
4702Possess your soul in patience. Renew often within you the feeling of the
4703presence of God, that you may learn moderation. There is nothing truly
4704great but lowliness, charity, fear of ourselves, and detachment from the
4705dominion of sense. Accustom yourself gradually to carry prayer into your
4706daily occupations. Speak, move, act in peace as if you were in prayer.
4707Do everything without eagerness as if by the Spirit of God. As soon as
4708you perceive your natural impetuosity impelling you, retire into the
4709sanctuary where dwells the Father of spirits; listen to what you hear
4710there; and then neither say nor do anything but what He dictates in your
4711heart. You will find that you will become more tranquil, that your words
4712will be fewer and more to the purpose, and that with less effort you
4713will accomplish more good. When the heart is fixed on God it can easily
4714accustom itself to suspend the natural movements of ardent feeling, and
4715to wait for the favorable moment when the voice within may speak. This
4716is the continual sacrifice of self, and the life of faith.
4717
4718
4719                         The Faults of Others.
4720
4721Perfection is easily tolerant of the imperfections of others; it becomes
4722all things to all men. We must not be surprised at the greatest defects
4723in good souls, and must quietly let them alone until God gives the
4724signal of gradual removal; otherwise we shall pull up the wheat with the
4725tares.
4726
4727They who correct others ought to watch the moment when God touches their
4728hearts; we must bear a fault with patience till we perceive His Spirit
4729reproaching them within. We must imitate Him who gently reproves, so
4730that they feel that it is less God that condemns them than their own
4731hearts. When we blame with impatience, because we are displeased with
4732the fault, it is a human censure and not the disapprobation of God. It
4733is a sensitive self-love that can not forgive the self-love of others.
4734The more self-love we have, the more severe our censures. There is
4735nothing so vexatious as the collisions between one excessive self-love
4736and another still more violent and excessive. The passions of others are
4737infinitely ridiculous to those who are under the dominion of their own.
4738The ways of God are very different. He is ever full of kindness for us;
4739He gives us strength; He regards us with pity and condescension; He
4740remembers our weakness; He waits for us.
4741
4742I am very sorry for the imperfections you find in human beings, but you
4743must learn to expect but little from them; this is the only security
4744against disappointment. We must receive from them what they are able to
4745give us, as from trees the fruits that they yield. God bears with
4746imperfect beings even when they resist His goodness. We ought to imitate
4747this merciful patience and endurance. It is only imperfection that
4748complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are, the more gentle
4749and quiet we become toward the defects of others.
4750
4751The defects of our neighbors interfere with our own; our vanity is
4752wounded by that of another; our own haughtiness finds our neighbor’s
4753ridiculous and insupportable; our restlessness is rebuked by the
4754sluggishness and indolence of this person; our gloom is disturbed by the
4755gayety and frivolity of that person; and our heedlessness by the
4756shrewdness and address of another. If we were faultless we should not be
4757so much annoyed by the defects of those with whom we associate. If we
4758were to acknowledge honestly that we have not virtue enough to bear
4759patiently with our neighbor’s weaknesses, we should show our own
4760imperfection, and this alarms our vanity. We therefore make our weakness
4761pass for strength, elevate it to a virtue, and call it zeal. For it is
4762not surprising to see how tranquil we are about the errors of others
4763when they do not trouble us, and how soon this wonderful zeal kindles
4764against those who excite our jealousy or weary our patience.
4765
4766
4767                        Not Perfect in a Moment.
4768
4769Neither in His gracious nor providential dealings does God work a
4770miracle lightly. It would be as great a wonder to see a person full of
4771self become in a moment dead to all self-interest and all sensitiveness
4772as it would be to see a slumbering infant wake in the morning a fully
4773developed man. God works in a mysterious way in grace as well as in
4774nature, concealing His operations under an imperceptible succession of
4775events, and thus keeps us always in the darkness of faith.
4776
4777He makes use of the inconstancy and ingratitude of the creature, and of
4778the disappointments and surfeits which accompany prosperity, to detach
4779us from them both. All this dealing appears perfectly natural, and it is
4780by this succession of natural means that we are burnt as by a slow fire.
4781We should like to be consumed at once by the flames of pure love; but
4782such an end would cost us scarce anything. It is only an excessive
4783self-love that desires thus to become perfect in a moment, and at so
4784cheap a rate.
4785
4786We cling to an infinity of things which we never suspect; we only feel
4787that they are a part of us when they are snatched away, as I am only
4788conscious that I have hairs when they are pulled from my head. God
4789develops to us little by little what is within us, of which we are until
4790then entirely ignorant, and we are astonished at discovering in our very
4791virtues defects of which we should never have believed ourselves
4792capable.
4793
4794God spares us by discovering our weakness to us in proportion as our
4795strength to support the view of it increases. We discover our
4796imperfections one by one as we are able to cure them. Without this
4797merciful preparation that adapts our strength to the light within, we
4798should be in despair.
4799
4800To the sincere desire to do the will of God we must add a cheerful
4801spirit that is not overcome when it has failed, but tries again and
4802again to do better; hoping always to the very end to be able to do it;
4803bearing with its own involuntary weakness as God bears with it; waiting
4804with patience for the moment when it shall be delivered from it; going
4805straight on in singleness of heart according to the strength that it can
4806command; losing no time by looking back, nor making useless reflections
4807when it falls, which can only embarrass and retard its progress. The
4808first sight of our little failings should humble us, but we must press
4809on; not judging ourselves with a Judaical rigor; not regarding God as a
4810spy watching for our least offense, or as an enemy who places snares in
4811our path, but as a Father who loves and wishes to save us; trusting in
4812His goodness, invoking His blessing, and doubting all other support.
4813This is true liberty.
4814
4815
4816                               Humility.
4817
4818The foundation of peace with all men is humility. Pride is incompatible
4819with pride; hence arise divisions in the world. We must stifle all
4820rising jealousies; all little contrivances to promote our own glory;
4821vain desires to please or to succeed, or to be praised; the fear of
4822seeing others preferred to ourselves; the anxiety to have our plans
4823carried into effect; the natural love of dominion and desire to
4824influence others. These rules are soon given, but it is not so easy to
4825observe them. With some people, not only pride and hauteur render these
4826duties very difficult, but great natural sensitiveness makes the
4827practice of them nearly impossible, and, instead of respecting their
4828neighbor with a true feeling of humility, all their charity amounts only
4829to a sort of compassionate toleration that nearly resembles contempt.
4830
4831Humility is the source of all true greatness; pride is ever impatient,
4832ready to be offended. He who thinks nothing is due to him never thinks
4833himself ill-treated; true meekness is not mere temperament, for this is
4834only softness or weakness.
4835
4836There is no true and constant gentleness without humility; while we are
4837so fond of ourselves we are easily offended with others. Let us be
4838persuaded that nothing is due to us, and then nothing will disturb us.
4839Let us often think of our own infirmities, and we shall become indulgent
4840toward those of others.
4841
4842
4843                             Daily Faults.
4844
4845Little faults become great in our eyes in proportion as the pure light
4846of God increases in us, just as the sun in rising reveals the true
4847dimensions of objects which were dimly and confusedly discovered during
4848the night. Be sure that, with the increase of the inward light, the
4849imperfections which you have hitherto seen will be beheld as far greater
4850and more deadly in their foundations than you now conceive them, and
4851that you will witness, in addition, the development of a crowd of
4852others, of the existence of which you have not now the slightest
4853suspicion. You will find the weaknesses necessary to deprive you of all
4854confidence in your own strength; but this discovery, far from
4855discouraging, will but serve to destroy your self-reliance, and raze to
4856the ground the edifice of pride.
4857
4858Our faults, even those most difficult to bear, will all be of service to
4859us if we make use of them for our humiliation without relaxing our
4860efforts to correct them. We must bear with ourselves without either
4861flattery or discouragement, a mean seldom attained. Utter despair of
4862ourselves, in consequence of a conviction of our helplessness and
4863unbounded confidence in God, is the true foundation of the spiritual
4864edifice.
4865
4866Discouragement is not a fruit of humility, but of pride; nothing can be
4867worse. Suppose we have stumbled, or even fallen, let us rise and run
4868again; all our falls are useful if they strip us of a disastrous
4869confidence in ourselves, while they do not take away a humble and
4870salutary trust in God.
4871
4872Carefully purify your conscience from daily faults; suffer no sin to
4873dwell in your heart; small as it may seem, it obscures the light of
4874grace, weighs down the soul, and hinders that constant communion with
4875Jesus Christ which it should be your pleasure to cultivate; you will
4876become lukewarm, forget God, and find yourself growing in attachment to
4877the creature. The great point is never to act in opposition to the
4878inward light, but be willing to go as far as God would have us.
4879
4880
4881                                Motives.
4882
4883God does not so much regard our actions as the motives of love from
4884which they spring, and the pliability of our wills to His. Men judge our
4885deeds by their outward appearance; with God, that which is most dazzling
4886in the eyes of men is of no account. What He desires is a pure
4887intention, a will ready for anything and ever pliable in His hands, and
4888an honest abandonment of self; and all this can be much more frequently
4889manifested on small than on extraordinary occasions; there will also be
4890much less danger from pride, and the trial will be far more searching.
4891Indeed, it sometimes happens that we find it harder to part with a
4892trifle than with an important interest; it may be more of a cross to
4893abandon a vain amusement than to bestow a large sum in charity.
4894
4895The greatest danger of all consists in this, that by neglecting small
4896matters the soul becomes accustomed to unfaithfulness. We grieve the
4897Holy Spirit, we return to ourselves, we think it a little thing to be
4898wanting toward God. On the other hand, true love can see nothing small;
4899everything that can either please or displease God seems to be great.
4900Not that true love disturbs the soul with scruples, but it puts no limit
4901to its faithfulness; it acts simply with God; and as it does not concern
4902itself about those things which God does not require from it, so it
4903never hesitates an instant about those which He does, be they great or
4904small.
4905
4906
4907                              True Prayer.
4908
4909True prayer is only another name for the love of God. To pray is to
4910desire—but to desire what God would have us desire. He who asks what he
4911does not from the bottom of his heart desire, is mistaken in thinking
4912that he prays. O how few there are who pray; for how few are they who
4913desire what is truly good! Crosses, external and internal humiliation,
4914renouncement of our own wills, the death of self, and the establishment
4915of God’s throne upon the ruins of self-love,—these are indeed good. Not
4916to desire these is not to pray; to desire them seriously, soberly,
4917constantly, and with reference to all the details of life,—this is true
4918prayer. Alas! how many souls full of self and of an imaginary desire for
4919perfection in the midst of hosts of voluntary imperfections, have never
4920yet uttered this true prayer of the heart! It is in reference to this
4921that St. Augustine says, “He that loveth little, prayeth little; he that
4922loveth much, prayeth much.”
4923
4924Our intercourse with God resembles that with a friend; at first there
4925are a thousand things to be told and as many to be asked; but after a
4926time these diminish, while the pleasure of being together does not.
4927Everything has been said, but the satisfaction of seeing each other, of
4928feeling that one is near the other, of reposing in the enjoyment of a
4929pure and sweet friendship, can be felt without conversation; the silence
4930is eloquent and mutually understood. Each feels that the other is in
4931perfect sympathy with him, and that their two hearts are incessantly
4932poured out into each other, and constitute but one.
4933
4934Those who have stations of importance to fill have generally so many
4935indispensable duties to perform that, without the greatest care in the
4936management of their time, none will be left to be alone with God. If
4937they have ever so little inclination to dissipation, the hours that
4938belong to God and their neighbor disappear altogether. We must be firm
4939in observing our rules. This strictness seems excessive, but without it
4940everything falls into confusion; we become dissipated, relaxed, and lose
4941strength; we insensibly separate from God, surrender ourselves to all
4942our pleasures, and only then begin to perceive that we have wandered
4943when it is almost hopeless to think of endeavoring to return.
4944
4945
4946                            The Human Will.
4947
4948True virtue and pure love reside in the will alone. The question is not,
4949What is the state of our feelings? But, What is the condition of our
4950will? Let us will to have whatever we have, and not to have whatever we
4951have not. We would not even be delivered from our sufferings, for it is
4952God’s place to apportion to us our crosses and our joys. In the midst of
4953affliction we rejoice, as did the apostles; but it is not joy of the
4954feelings, joy of the will. The faithful soul has a will which is
4955perfectly free; it accepts without questioning whatever bitter blessings
4956God develops, wills them, loves them, and embraces them; it would not be
4957freed from them if it could be accomplished by a simple wish; for such a
4958wish would be an act originating in self and contrary to its abandonment
4959to Providence; and it is desirous that this abandonment should be
4960absolutely perfect.
4961
4962The important question is, not how much you enjoy religion, but whether
4963you will whatever God wills. The essence of virtue consists in the
4964attitude of the will. That kingdom of God which is within us consists in
4965our willing whatever God wills, always, in everything, without
4966reservation. Thus nothing can ever come to pass against our wishes; for
4967nothing can happen contrary to the will of God. The interior life is the
4968beginning of the blessed peace of the saints, who eternally cry, Amen,
4969Alleluia! We adore, we praise, we bless God in everything; we see Him
4970incessantly, and in all things His paternal hand is the sole object of
4971our contemplation. There are no longer any evils; for even the most
4972terrible that can come upon us work together for our good. Can the
4973suffering that God designs to purify us and make us worthy of Himself be
4974called an evil?
4975
4976Happy is he who never hesitates; who fears only that he follows with too
4977little readiness; who would rather do too much against self than too
4978little. Blessed is he who, when asked for a sample, boldly presents his
4979entire stock and suffers God to cut from the whole cloth. It is thought
4980that this state is a painful one. It is a mistake; here is peace and
4981liberty; here the heart, detached from everything, is immeasurably
4982enlarged, so as to become illimitable; nothing cramps it; and, in
4983accordance with the promise, it becomes, in a certain sense, one with
4984God Himself.
4985
4986True progress does not consist in a multitude of views, nor in
4987austerities, trouble, and strife; it is simply willing nothing and
4988everything, without reservation and choice, cheerfully performing each
4989day’s journey as Providence appoints it for us: seeking nothing,
4990refusing nothing, finding everything in the present moment, and
4991suffering God, who does everything, to do His pleasure in and by us
4992without the slightest resistance.
4993
4994
4995                            Various Advices.
4996
4997You may be exercised in self-renunciation in every event of every day.
4998
4999
5000Peace in this life springs from acquiescence even in disagreeable
5001things, not in an exemption from suffering.
5002
5003
5004Whoever will refuse nothing which comes in the order of God, and seek
5005nothing out of that order, need never fear to finish his day’s work
5006without partaking of the cross of Jesus Christ. There is an
5007indispensable providence for crosses as well as for the necessaries of
5008life; they are a part of our daily bread; God will never suffer it to
5009fail.
5010
5011
5012A life of faith produces two things: First, it enables us to see God in
5013everything; secondly, it holds the mind in a state of readiness for
5014whatever may be His will. This continual, unceasing dependence on God,
5015this state of entire peace and acquiescence of the soul in whatever may
5016happen, is the true silent martyrdom of self.
5017
5018
5019With the exception of sin, nothing happens in this world out of the will
5020of God. It is He who is the author, ruler, and bestower of all; He has
5021numbered the hairs of our head, the leaves of every tree, the sand upon
5022the seashore, and the drops of the ocean.
5023
5024
5025This is the whole of religion: to get out of self in order to get into
5026God.
5027
5028
5029To be a Christian is to be an imitator of Jesus Christ. In what can we
5030imitate Him if not in his humiliation? Nothing else can bring us near to
5031Him. We may adore Him as omnipotent, fear Him as just, love Him with all
5032our heart as good and merciful, but we can only imitate Him as humble,
5033submissive, poor, and despised.
5034
5035
5036What men stand most in need of is the knowledge of God. It is not
5037astonishing that men do so little for God, and that the little which
5038they do costs them so much. They do not know Him; scarcely do they
5039believe that He exists. If He were known He would be loved.
5040
5041
5042Thou causest me clearly to understand that Thou makest use of the evils
5043and imperfections of the creature to do the good which Thou hast
5044determined beforehand. Thou concealest Thyself under the importunate
5045visitor who intrudes upon the occupation of Thy impatient child, that he
5046may learn not to be impatient, and that he may die to the gratification
5047of being free to study or work as he pleases. Thou availest Thyself of
5048slanderous tongues to destroy the reputation of Thine innocent children,
5049that, besides their innocence, they may offer Thee the sacrifice of
5050their too highly cherished reputation. By the cunning artifices of the
5051envious Thou layest low the fortunes of those whose hearts were too much
5052set upon their prosperity. Thus Thou mercifully strewest bitterness over
5053everything that is not Thyself, to the end that our hearts, formed to
5054love Thee and to exist upon Thy love, may be, as it were, constrained to
5055return to Thee by a want of satisfaction in everything else.
5056
5057  “O ’tis enough whate’er befall,
5058  To know that God is all in all.
5059  ’Tis this which makes my treasure,
5060    ’Tis this which brings my gain;
5061  Converting woe to pleasure,
5062    And reaping joy from pain.”
5063                                                         _Madame Guyon._
5064
5065  “There are in the loud-stunning tide
5066    Of human care and crime,
5067  With whom the melodies abide
5068    Of the everlasting chime,
5069  Who carry music in their heart
5070  Through dusky lane and wrangling mart;
5071  Plying their daily task with busier feet,
5072  Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.”
5073                                                                _Keble._
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078                               Footnotes
5079
5080
5081[1]This edition of the “Letters,” edited by H. L. Sidney Lear, is also
5082    published by the Longmans of London. There is an abridged edition,
5083    in paper, for fifteen cents, for sale by George W. McCalls,
5084    Philadelphia, who also publishes Fénelon’s “Christian Counsel,”
5085    “Spiritual Letters” of Madame Guyon, “Life of Dr. John Tauler,” and
5086    other similar books. The five most important Lives of Fénelon are by
5087    E. K. Sanders, Longmans, London, 1901; by Viscount St. Cyres,
5088    Methuen & Co., London, 1901; by H. L. Sidney Lear, Rivingtons,
5089    London, 1877; by Dr. T. C. Upham, Harpers, New York, 1846; and by
5090    Charles Butler, Esq., John Murray, London, 1819.
5091
5092[2]Quoted in _The American Presbyterian and Theological Review_ for
5093    October, 1863, page 674, and also in McClintock and Strong’s
5094    Cyclopedia, Vol. III, page 529.
5095
5096[3]The celebrated historian of the Reformation, J. H. Merle d’Aubigne,
5097    who died at Geneva in 1872, was descended from the same family.
5098
5099[4]The principal sources of information on this important subject of
5100    Mysticism, from which we have drawn and to which we would refer such
5101    readers as wish to investigate the question further, are the
5102    following: “Christian Mysticism,” by William Ralph Inge, being the
5103    Bampton Lectures for 1899; Vaughan’s “Hours With the Mystics;”
5104    articles in the Encyclopedia Britannica; Schaff-Herzog Cyclopedia;
5105    McClintock and Strong’s Cyclopedia; articles in the _Methodist
5106    Quarterly Review_ for January, 1860, January, 1869, and July, 1878;
5107    various Church Histories, and Histories of Doctrine, together with
5108    the Lives and Writings of the main Mystics mentioned in the present
5109    chapter and the chapter which follows.
5110
5111[5]Even Spinoza said, “He that would love God aright must not seek to be
5112    loved in return;” and Goethe confessed himself haunted by this
5113    wonderful saying. It is fully in accord with the fact that the most
5114    chivalrous and generous friendship is never concerned about payment
5115    in kind, about what it shall get in return; it only asks the
5116    privilege of loving and of pouring itself out unstintedly for its
5117    beloved. Disinterestedness should not probably be pressed as a
5118    requirement upon minds not capable of such heights, but it has a
5119    grandeur that appeals sometimes to nearly all. This was especially
5120    the case in an age when Jesuit cheapjacks were accustomed to haggle
5121    with God for the price of the soul, and discuss whether it was
5122    necessary to love Him once in a week or once in a year, or whether
5123    salvation might not be purchased still more cheaply at the price of
5124    one act of love in a lifetime.
5125
5126[6]Inge says: “Fiery energy and unresting industry characterized St.
5127    John of the Cross. No one ever climbed the rugged peaks of Mt.
5128    Carmel with more heroic courage and patience. His life shows what
5129    tremendous moral force is generated by complete self-surrender to
5130    God. His reward was fellowship with Christ in suffering.”
5131
5132[7]See “Honey from Many Hives,” gathered by Rev. James Mudge, New York,
5133    Eaton and Mains, 1899. Large quotations also from Francis of Sales
5134    are given in this volume, and from many other Mystical writers.
5135
5136[8]Fénelon, on sending the manuscript to the Archbishop of Paris used
5137    these words: “I have done what I believed to be my duty, and I leave
5138    the rest to God. I do not care about my work. I am not even anxious
5139    about truth, God will care for it.”
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144                          Transcriber’s Notes
5145
5146
5147--Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
5148  is public-domain in the country of publication.
5149
5150--Created cover and spine images based on elements in the book.
5151
5152--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.
5153
5154--In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
5155  _underscores_.
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fénelon: The Mystic, by James Mudge
5164
5165*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FÉNELON: THE MYSTIC ***
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