Act v. sc. 9.

We have occupied so much space in the analysis and extracts from this remarkable work, that little room is left for further observation. It is impossible to present all the beauties of the poem, and allowance must be made for showing them in another language; yet some idea may be afforded of the general character of the piece. The original abounds with striking passages that have of necessity been left unnoticed, strangely mingled with the tumid extravagances and heterogeneous conceits belonging to the age in which it was written. These faults, however, are but trifling in comparison with its merits; and the wonderful conception, the glorious plan, is not marred by them. When the superior personages appear on the scene, the inspiration of the poet is triumphant over the defects of his school; not a line of their language is disfigured by aught which the most fastidious of modern tastes could condemn. It is only in the management of inferior and of allegorical personages that the faults alluded to can be perceived; and even here the rich and noble genius of the poet has mastered many of his difficulties.

The author of _Adam_ could hardly have anticipated, in the representation of his work on the stage, a success commensurate with its merits; since the trickery of scenic effect could but poorly indeed embody the creations of genius. Fancying an attempt to make them apparent to the senses of a rabble audience, we can scarcely wonder that the whole should have been stamped with ridicule. But any reader of the poem will concede that the sublime conception of _Paradise Lost_ belongs to Andreini as the originator. He ascended with success "the highest heaven of invention;" and when he puts words into the mouth of Deity, and interprets the hymnings of angelic choirs, he shows himself equal to the task.

The extension of the reputation of this wonderful production would considerably increase our sense of obligation to Italian literature.

FOOTNOTES:

[184] A copy of this rare poem in the original Italian may be found in the Astor Library.

[185]

"These puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied heaven."

_Paradise Lost_, Book i.

[186]

"Into our room of bliss thus high advanced Creatures of other mould."

_Par. Lost_, Book iv.

[187] See _Paradise Lost_, Book ix. line 705.

[188]

"Shall that be shut to man which to the beast Is open?"

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[189]

"Or is it envy? and can envy dwell In heavenly breasts?"

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[190]

"Henceforth to speculations high and deep I turned my thoughts; and with capacious mind Considered all things visible in heaven Or earth."

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[191]

"_Eve._ O me! lassa ch'io sento Un gelido tremor vagar per l'osa Che mi fa graccio il core.

_Serpent._ E la parte mortal che già incomincia A languir, sendo dal divin gravata, Che sovra le tue chiome In potenza sovrasta."

[192] See _Paradise Lost_, Book iv. line 940.

FÉNELON.[193]

BY THE LATE REV. J. W. CUMMINGS, D.D.

Ladies and Gentlemen: It would be possible to fix a point of time in the reign of King Louis XIV. unequalled in brilliancy by any other in the eventful history of the French nation. Such a period would present to us the great monarch crowned with the glory of his early successes, unsullied as yet by the shame of his later weakness and degradation. A tableau of the court of Versailles would show us the throne surrounded by groups of men illustrious in every department of human greatness. To name a few only: military fame would find its representatives in Condé, Turenne, Luxembourg, Vauban, and Villars; poetry, in Malherbe, La Fontaine, and Boileau; the drama, in Racine, Corneille, and Molière; political science, in Mazarin, Colbert, and Louvois; philosophy, in Pascal and Descartes; eloquence, in Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, and Bossuet; painting, in Poussin and Lesueur; archaeology, in Mabillon and Montfaucon; general literature, in La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Balzac, and Madame de Sévigné. Yet among all the great men of that wonderful period there is not one, probably, who, if given a choice, would not willingly exchange his reputation with that of Fénelon, who in early life moved in that brilliant court as an obscure priest, and in the fulness of manhood was sent away from it into honorable exile.

I would it were in my power, ladies and gentlemen, to lay before you such a sketch of the life of Fénelon as would fully explain to you by what secret a Roman Catholic priest, who devoted himself so entirely to preaching and to proselytizing for his church, became popular to such an unwonted degree, and remains so to this day, not less in the Protestant world than among men of his own creed.

I have neither the time nor, I fear, the ability to do justice to so excellent a theme. I do hope, however, that my brief remarks may have the effect of so far engaging the curiosity of the younger portion of my hearers as to lead them to study Fénelon's life and writings. Nobody ever rose from the perusal of either without feeling an inclination to love himself less, and to extend a larger and warmer charity to his fellow-men, whatever their condition or their creed.

François de Salignac de la Mothe, Marquis of Fénelon, was born in the chateau of Fénelon in the year 1651, and came of distinguished lineage on the side of both parents. His early education was judicious, his father and mother training him in morals and religion both by word and example, and his able preceptor making it his aim to teach him the love of study for its own sake.

The child's brain was not developed at the expense of the rest of his body, and abundant daily exercise in the fresh open air united with regular and frugal habits to form a sound body for the dwelling of a noble and gifted soul.

His decided fondness for Greek and Latin literature made him a great reader, yet without effort or constraint, and led gradually to the formation of that mixture of grace and melody in his style for which he stands preëminent among the greatest French writers.

He spent five years in Paris at the Seminary of St. Sulpice, and took orders at the age of twenty-four. His first impulse was to dedicate his life to the foreign missions; and he was prevented only by the influence of his family from coming to America and settling among the Indians in Canada.

A mission was provided for him in the heart of Paris, and there, while visiting the sick, instructing the ignorant and the young, comforting and relieving the poor, and exercising all the various duties of the Christian ministry, he acquired that knowledge of the human heart, and of the mode of touching and persuading it, that fitted him, no less than his long and patient devotion to books, for the work of improving his fellow-men. A new field of observation and benevolent labor was the institution known as "Les Nouvelles Catholiques," a seminary under royal patronage for the education of young ladies, chiefly recent converts to the church. The Abbé Fénelon presided for ten years over both the ladies in charge and their pupils, giving both the benefit of his learning, his refinement, his gentle and cheerful religious spirit, and his high-minded and enlightened devotion. To his knowledge of the heart of woman, of her weakness and her strength, gathered while in this position, we owe his earliest book, the _Treatise on the Education of Girls_, a work which made its author widely known, and procured for him in time the appointment of tutor to the grandson of Louis XIV.

In 1685, the king signed the revocation of the edict of Nantes. The effect of this measure was to reduce his Protestant subjects, amounting to about two millions, to the cruel alternative of abjuring their faith or quitting France for ever. Of the many that left, some found their way to the United States, and the descendants of the Huguenots have contributed their share to the prosperity and advancement of the land of liberty. The king undertook to bring about the conversion of those who remained, and, happily for the Protestants of Saintange and Annis, the missionary selected for them was the Abbé de Fénelon. Royal orders had been given that the missionary should be supported by a detachment of dragoons. The proffered assistance was gently but firmly declined. "Our ministry," said the abbé, "is one of harmony and peace. We are going to our brethren who are astray; we shall bring them back to the fold by charity alone. It is not by means of violence and constraint that conviction can be made to penetrate the soul." His reasoning prevailed, and he was allowed to depart alone. The stern Calvinists of Poitou soon came to look upon this new pastor with kindness and affection, and, in return, his influence saved them from further annoyance on the part of the civil authority.

In 1689, a happy event for the world of letters occurred in the appointment of Fénelon to be the tutor of Louis, Duke of Burgundy, the son of the dauphin. He applied himself to his new task with untiring and conscientious devotion, and the account of his manner of fulfilling it is exceedingly interesting. His first care was to study well the character and disposition of his pupil. The result of this investigation was any thing but encouraging. The Duke of Saint Simon, who was well acquainted with the young prince, states that he was naturally stubborn, haughty, and unkind. He was endowed with strong passions, and fond of every sort of animal gratification. His temper was so violent that in his fits of rage it was dangerous to attempt to control him. He would tear and break whatever came to his hands, and be carried away by such outbursts of fury that his life seemed to be really in danger. He was fond of the pleasures of the table and of the chase, naturally cruel, and brimful of a pride that led him to look upon other men as objects of usefulness and amusement, rather than as beings equal to himself.

Such was the pupil confided to the care of Fénelon; and under his wise and gentle guidance the headstrong, selfish, and cruel boy became kind, generous, modest, and remarkable for perfect and unfailing self-control.

The besetting sin of the young prince was a perverseness of temper always hard to manage and ready, for the slightest cause, to break out into open rebellion, on which occasions no one had been able to control him. Fénelon's manner of correcting this fault is full of instruction. He avoided direct attacks and punishments, seeking, by gentle remonstrance and good-natured raillery, to lead the boy into being ashamed of his fault. When there was a prospect of being listened to, he would make use of simple maxims showing the folly and wickedness of angry passion, and explaining his remarks by familiar illustrations likely to be easily understood and remembered. Sometimes he yielded without remonstrance, avoiding all recourse to authority or personal influence unless he was well assured that it would prove successful. The little work known as _Fénelon's Fables_ was composed piecemeal, each fable being called forth by some fault the prince had committed, or for the purpose of helping him to remember some moral point, and leading him gradually on in the system of improvements his tutor had adopted.

One day, when the prince had made all around him unhappy by indulging in repeated bursts of spleen and disobedience, Fénelon took a sheet of paper and wrote in his presence the following sketch, which we find among the fables:

"What great disaster has happened to Melanthus? Outwardly nothing, inwardly every thing. He went to bed last night the delight of all the people; this morning we are ashamed of him; we shall have to hide him away. On rising, a fold of his garment has displeased him, the whole day will therefore be stormy, and every body will have to suffer: he makes us fear him, he makes us pity him, he cries like a child, he roars like a lion. A poisonous vapor darkens his imagination, as the ink he uses in writing soils his fingers. You must not speak to him about things that pleased him an hour ago; he loved them then, and for that very reason he hates them now. The amusements that interested him a little while ago are now become intolerable, and must be broken up; he wishes to contradict and to irritate those around him, and he is angry because people will not get angry with him. When he can find no pretext for attacking others, he turns against himself; he is low-spirited, and takes it very ill that any body should try to comfort him. He wishes for solitude, and he cannot bear to be left alone; he comes back into company, and it exasperates him. If his friends are silent, their affected silence goads him; if they speak low, he fancies they are talking about him; if they speak loud, it strikes him they have too much to say. If they laugh, it seems to him that they are making game of him; if they are sad, that their sadness is meant to reproach him for his faults. What is to be done? Why, to be as firm and patient as he is intolerable, and to wait quietly until he becomes to-morrow as sensible as he was yesterday. This strange humor comes and goes in the strangest fashion. When it seizes him, it is as sudden as the exploding of a pistol or a gun; he is like the pictures of those possessed by evil spirits; his reason becomes unreason; if you put him to it, you can make him say that it is dark night at twelve o'clock in the day; for there is no distinction of day or night for a man who is out of his head. He sheds tears, he laughs, he jokes, he is mad. In his madness he can be eloquent, amusing, subtle, full of cunning although he has not a particle of common sense left. You have to be extremely careful to pick your words with him; for although bereft of sense, he can become suddenly very knowing, and find his reason for a moment to prove to you that you have lost yours."

It is easy to understand the effect of a lesson like this on a high-spirited but self-conceited boy. He sought to overawe those around him and finds out that he has made himself unmistakably ridiculous! The instructor who wishes to correct his pupil's faults will succeed oftener by wounding his vanity than he will by flattering it.

His fables at another time present in charming images the happiness of being good.

"Who is," says one of them, "this god-like shepherd who enters the peaceful shade of our forest? He loves poetry and listens to our songs. Poetry will soften his heart, and render him as gentle as he is proud. May this young hero grow in virtue as a flower unfolds in the genial air of spring. May he love noble thoughts, and may graceful words ever sit upon his lips. May the wisdom of Minerva reign in his heart. May he equal Orpheus in the charms of his voice and Hercules in the greatness of his achievements. May he possess all the boldness of Achilles without his fiery temper. May he be good, wise, and beneficent, love mankind tenderly, and be much loved by all in return. He loves our sweet songs, they reach his heart even as cooling dews reach the green sward parched by the heat of mid-summer. Oh! may the gods teach him moderation and crown him with endless success. May he hold in his hand the horn of plenty, and may the golden age return under his sway. May wisdom fill his heart and run over into the hearts of his fellow-men, and may flowers spring up in his footsteps wherever he may go."

These fables gave a moral and practical meaning to the details of mythology which the prince was studying, and furnished him also with models of style. They speak to him and of him as one who is in time to be a king; but it will be observed that no traits of character are praised except those which it was desirable he should possess.

The main difficulty with the young prince still recurred--his impetuous outbreaks of temper, accompanied by the stubborn determination to make every body around him yield and allow him to have his way, however unreasonable. This dangerous condition of mind was always treated by Fénelon's advice in the same manner. The Duke de Beauvilliers, who was his governor; the Abbé de Fénelon, and his assistant tutor, the celebrated historian Fleury; even the officers of his household and his domestics, all treated him with proof not of apprehension but of humiliating compassion. When his ill-humor grew furiously excited, they kept aloof and avoided him as one who had lost the use of his reason by some sad distemper. If the fit held out, his books were taken from him, and instruction was refused him, as being altogether useless in the deplorable condition into which he had now fallen. Left alone, denied all sympathy, given time to cool down, made to feel that his rage was undignified and ineffectual, the boy soon grew weary, ashamed, and at length repentant. He would then sue for pardon, which was only granted after many promises on his honor that he would not behave so foolishly and wickedly again.

One of these promises of amendment, made in writing, has been preserved and it reads as follows:

"I promise, on my word of honor as a prince, to the Abbé de Fénelon to do on the instant whatever he may tell me, and to obey immediately when he may forbid me to do any thing; and if I fail, I hereby submit myself to every sort of punishment and dishonor. Done at Versailles, Nov. 29th, 1689, Signed LOUIS."

This touching engagement upon honor by a boy under ten years of age was made in the first year of Fénelon's charge over him. He had already begun to make some progress, in spite of a disposition the ugliness of which had been previously set down as incorrigible.

The tutor had determined to master his pupil's rudeness, as an indispensable condition of any improvement, moral or literary.

One day he had recourse to a stratagem that might present his conduct to him in a new light. The young duke stopped one morning to examine the tools of a carpenter, who had been summoned to do some work in his apartment. The man, who had learned his part from Fénelon, told him in the roughest manner possible to go about his business. The prince, little accustomed to hear such language, began to resent it; but was interrupted by the workman, who, raising his voice and trembling with rage from head to foot, screamed to him to get beyond his reach. "I am a man," cried he, "who, when my temper is roused, think nothing of breaking the head of any person that crosses me." The prince, frightened beyond measure, ran to his master to tell him that a crazy man had been allowed to come into the palace. "He is a poor laborer," said Fénelon coldly, "whose only fault is giving signs of violent anger." "But he is a bad man," cried the boy, "and must leave my apartment." "He is worthy of pity rather than punishment," added his tutor. "You are surprised at his being angry because you disturbed him at his work; what would you say now of a prince who beats his valet at the very time that he is trying to do him a service?"

On another occasion the young man, piqued by the tone of severity which his tutor had found it necessary to assume, answered him in the most arrogant manner, "I will not allow you, sir, to command me; I know what I am, and I know what you are." Fénelon answered not a word; for remonstrance or reproof would have been useless. He determined, however, to give his pupil a lesson he should not easily forget. For the rest of that day he did not speak to him, his sadness alone evincing his displeasure. On the following morning he entered the duke's chamber immediately after his being awakened. "I do not know, sir," said he to his pupil with cold and distant respect, "if you recollect what you told me yesterday, namely, that you knew who you are and who I am. It is my duty to make you understand that you know neither one nor the other. You fancy then, sir, that you are more than I. Some lackey may have told you so; but I hesitate not, as you force me to it, to tell you that I am far above you. There is no question here of birth, which adds nothing to your personal merit. You cannot pretend to surpass me in wisdom. You know nothing but what I have taught you, and that is nothing compared with what remains for you to learn. As to power, you have none whatever over me; but I have authority full and entire over you. The king and monseigneur the dauphin have told you so often enough. You may think that I consider it a great thing to hold the situation I fill near your person. Let me tell you that you are altogether mistaken. I have accepted it only to obey the king and to please monseigneur, not certainly for the painful advantage of being your preceptor. To convince you of all I have said, I am about to lead you to his majesty, and to beg him to give you some other tutor, who will meet, I hope, with more consoling success than I have."

This speech threw the prince into the greatest consternation. "O my master!" he exclaimed, bursting into tears, "if you abandon me, what will become of me? Do not make the king my enemy for life. Forgive me for what I said yesterday, and I promise you never, never, to displease you again."

Fénelon did not yield easily, although on the following day he consented to be reconciled to his pupil.

His main dependence, however, in forming the character of the boy, was the sound religious principles which he never grew tired of instilling into his mind by word and example. He would at any moment interrupt literary instruction to explain some point of duty upon which his pupil might desire to converse. He taught him to look up to God, not with servile fear, but to love him; and to love to think and speak of him as the author of all that is beautiful in nature and in man. Fénelon gives us himself an instance of the empire of religion over his soul in a beautiful sketch which he wrote after his pupil's death. "One day," he says, "when he was in a very bad humor, and when he was seeking to conceal some act of disobedience, I asked him to tell me before God what he had done. 'Before God!' he exclaimed with great anger; 'why do you ask me "before God"? But since you do so ask me, I cannot deceive you; I therefore acknowledge my guilt.' He spoke thus, although he was at the moment frantic with rage. But religion had over him so much power that it forced from him the painful avowal."

It is difficult to record without emotion what Fénelon says further on of this noble youth, whom he came to love with paternal tenderness, and whose untimely death filled his heart with sorrow. "He would often tell me in our unrestrained conversations, 'I leave the Duke of Burgundy outside the door when I am with you, and I am nothing but little Louis.'" He closes the sketch by this splendid tribute to the change which had been wrought in his pupil's whole character: "I have never known a person whom it was more easy to tell of his own faults, or who would listen more readily to unpalatable truth." In proof of the excellent literary and scientific training of the prince, we find that the great Bossuet, after examining him for several hours, expressed himself satisfied and surprised at the young man's proficiency; and thus bore testimony to the ability and success of his tutor. Two works besides the _Fables_ deserve to be mentioned as fruits of this course of education. One, _Fénelon's Dialogues_, in which he presents to his royal pupil the different personages of history, speaking their true sentiments, and making known the secret motives of their actions. The other is the far-famed prose-poem, _The Adventures of Telemachus, Son of Ulysses_, which has won for its author the glory of having produced the most perfectly-written book in the French language.

Little more remains to be said of the Duke of Burgundy. Fénelon labored long and faithfully to make him fit to ascend the throne of France; he lived to see this work, involving such immense future good or evil, completed, and completed to his entire satisfaction. By an early death the dear young prince, in whom such vast expectations were centred, was lost to the love of his master and of France. Had he lived to reign in place of the weak and dissolute Count d'Artois, afterward Louis XV., the page of history setting forth in letters of fire and blood the scenes of the destruction of the French monarchy, might perhaps have remained unwritten.

Fénelon had not been made bishop, when he became acquainted with Madame de Guyon. He approved of the writings of this gifted woman as sound in the light of Catholic theology. He defended her character as free from the slightest ground of reproach, and avowed the opinion that she was guided by a spirit of goodness and truth. She was looked upon by her adversaries at the court as visionary in her piety, heretical in doctrine, and far from irreproachable in her conduct. Fénelon, now become Archbishop of Cambrai, was forced into a controversy in reference to her affairs, one side of which he conducted alone, while on the other there were ranged against him the great Bossuet, the French court, the king, the court of Rome, and, finally, the supreme pontiff himself.

The modern student of history is surprised to discover the loose courtiers of Louis XIV., both men and women, hotly engaged in a controversy on an abstract point of ascetic theology; to see the ungrateful king banishing from his presence the saviour of his grandson, and the most honest man in his court; to see Bossuet allowing his powerful mind to be used as a weapon for the persecution of Fénelon; to see Fénelon, in a position of so great difficulty and delicacy, always consistent, always conscientious, always refined, always eloquent, always pious, and yet speaking out boldly and bravely, without regard to consequences, what seemed to him to be right and true.

The controversy, in course of time, was narrowed down to the question whether the doctrine taught in a book of Fénelon's, entitled the _Maxims of the Saints_, was or was not the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. After a long investigation, the pope, as final judge in the matter, condemned the book, while extolling the personal virtues of the author. Without the slightest hesitancy, Fénelon bowed to the decision of the tribunal of final appeal, and condemned the book himself from the pulpit of his own cathedral. There was no mistaking his motive. He had shown clearly that he was beyond the influence of hope and fear, and that he humbled himself only because he truly believed now that he had been faulty, at least in expression. So noble an act of self-denial, humility, and obedience was attributed on all sides to its true source, namely, his sense of duty, and nothing else. Honest and upright dealing, according to the dictates of his conscience, proved the very best policy he could have followed in self-protection; for good and bad alike admired and applauded him all over the world. The book, abandoned by its author, ceased henceforth to be an object of interest, and Fénelon was the only one who gained any credit from a controversy in which good men and bad men had been strangely mixed up together, and fair means and foul were used in a fruitless endeavor to crush him.

The last years of Fénelon were passed in Cambrai, of which he was both archbishop and duke, and in which he was admired and beloved by all, whether rich or poor. Faithful in the discharge of every pastoral duty, he divided his time among the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the young, and the ignorant, helping, relieving, instructing, consoling all. The rest of the day he spent among his books, or in the company of intellectual and virtuous friends. The poorest villagers feared not to approach and speak to one whose simplicity and gentleness they well understood, and to whose goodness of heart no one ever appealed in vain.

His peaceful diocese soon became the theatre of scenes of bloodshed and desolation, caused by that war of succession during which the star of Louis XIV. began finally to pale before the rising glories of the Duke of Marlborough. Fénelon gave up his property and his palace itself for the relief and accommodation of the sick and the wounded. He distributed among the poor the grain and the fruits over which he had control, and ordered his steward to give food and lodging to all who needed it. When he was told that such liberality would absolutely ruin him, "God will help us," he replied; "his resources are infinite. Meanwhile let us give as long as we have any thing to give, and we shall have done our duty." His episcopal mansion was occupied by officers and soldiers as a hospital, his barns and outhouses were used as asylums by the peasantry who had fled before the troops of the allied army, and his courts and gardens were filled with the cattle the poor country people had driven in, protected by the influence of Fénelon's name.

So powerful was that name that the invading commanders spared all property belonging to the archbishop, and Marlborough even ordered a quantity of grain which had been taken at Chateau Cambresis, and which he had been informed was the property of the archbishop, to be placed on wagons and driven into the public square of Cambrai under an escort of British troops.

But in his fatherly kindness and attention to the wants of those around him, Fénelon did not cease to take a lively interest in the fortunes of the whole country. He could not witness the threatened downfall of his beloved France without the deepest feelings of sorrow. The danger of the nation was extreme. Louis was engaged in a ruinous war with a powerful and conquering enemy. He could not retire from the contest with honor, and he had neither funds nor credit to carry it on with success. In this desperate strait, the king declared that he would die at the head of his nobles, a brave resolution that could not, however, save the country. In this trying emergency the genius of Fénelon saw a solution better than that proposed by the king. It was bodied forth in a letter to the Duke de Chevreuse, and is probably the most striking production that ever came from his pen. He tells the duke that the nobles cannot save the king, that the danger is extreme, and that his true friends must advise him to turn for countenance and relief to the people. The nation is in a critical position. Let the nation be consulted. Let not France be taxed without her consent to carry on a war in which she feels no interest. The people have been badly governed. Let them be called upon to take part in their own government for the future. "There is danger," he grants, "in passing suddenly from unqualified dependence to an excess of liberty. Great caution will be necessary; but it is nevertheless certain that arbitrary authority will not save the country from ruin." "Despotism," he adds, "with plenty of means, is a government of prompt action; but when despotism becomes bankrupt, the first who abandon it to ruin are the venal men whom it has allowed to fatten on the blood of the people." The priest from whom these remarks are quoted is not Lamennais or Gioberti, but an archbishop of the time of Louis XIV. The whole letter reads like a prophecy, or like a history of what took place less than a century later. If Fénelon's advice had been acted upon, how gloriously would France have entered the first of nations upon the march of improvement. Religion and order would not have been made to seem enemies of the people, and the names of Diderot and the Encyclopædia, of Robespierre and the Directory, might have remained unknown for ever!

We need not delay here further than to say that, while Fénelon looked into the heart of the people for the source of national strength, a succession of rapid events saved the king from the terrible alternative in which he was placed. The Emperor Joseph I. died, Marlborough fell into disfavor at home, Marshal Villars gained the victory of Denain, and the whole face of Europe was changed. A treaty of peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.

Several of Fénelon's friends died in rapid succession, and his loving spirit was penetrated with grief at their loss. His death was hastened beyond doubt by the poignancy of his regret at these repeated afflictions. Why delay the sequel? His work was done, his views of life, his principles of duty to God, to one's country and to one's self, had been faithfully chronicled by his pen, and taught by the example of his serene and patient virtue. His hour was come, and in loving peace with all mankind, with words of faith on his lips, and the bright smile of Christian hope on his countenance, he breathed forth his pure spirit into the hands of his Maker. After his death, no funds were discovered belonging to him. They had been all distributed among the poor. He was buried without pomp in his church of Cambrai. During the Reign of Terror, the ancient tombs of that church were rifled, the leaden coffins were sent to the arsenal to be melted into bullets, and their contents thrown into the common burial ground. But when the invaders came to the bier of Fénelon, it was borne with decency and veneration into the city, and placed in a monument erected to his memory at a time when the sepulchres of emperors and kings were ruthlessly dismantled, and their ashes scattered pitilessly to the four winds of heaven.

Other great men of the age of Fénelon still live in history; few are admired more than he, and none is so much loved by men who upon other points are far from agreeing together. The wish expressed by one of his distinguished countrymen, that his memory might have the same advantage as his life, namely, that of making men love religion, has been fulfilled.

He wrote learnedly and eloquently in defence of his faith, and in refutation of the views of his opponents; and yet he avoids in all his works the extremes both of flattery and of harshness. Men of all religions recognize in him a friend, for all were embraced in his world-wide Christian charity; and yet they must bear with us, his fellow-Catholics, when we claim for our church the special honor of having made him the great and good man which all acknowledge him to have been. The earliest lessons he received came from the lips of devoted Catholic parents; and when his will was opened after his death, the first words read were the following emphatic expressions: "I declare that I wish to die in the arms of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, my mother. God, who reads the heart, and will be my judge, knows that there has not been an instant of my life in which I have not cherished for her the submission and docility of a little child." A noble tribute this, and one which leads us to look not despondingly to the tree which is capable of producing such sound and genial fruit.

This transient reflection, ladies and gentlemen, presents itself naturally to the mind, and nothing is further from my thoughts than an attempt to enlist your hearts against your cool judgment in favor of the Roman Catholic Church. The claim which that church puts forth to your attention is based officially by her on her divine right to the reverence of mankind. She has never refused to give man the history of her origin, and to submit to his earnest scrutiny the proofs of her divine commission. She claims to be the only institution established on this earth to teach man what is necessary that he may be saved, and asks and accepts no stinted or divided allegiance. She alleges distinctly that human reason is unable without assistance to find and embrace the true, and that the human will is unable without assistance to find and embrace the good. She undertakes to impart the highest truth and the highest good to all who take her for their guide and their mother. She has been more cordially hated, and more devotedly beloved, than any object that history in all its witnessing can tell of. She claims not only to be a teacher, but a teacher endowed with unerring authority, and offers as vouchers for that claim the clear promise of her divine Founder, to abide with her until the end of time, and the lives and deaths of innumerable men and women taught by her to live perfectly upon earth. She has never disguised the greatness of that sacrifice of self which must be made by every man who would enjoy the peace here and the immortality of happiness hereafter, which she pledges to her faithful children; but she promises, in the name of God, supernatural assistance for making that sacrifice in spite of its seeming terrors. She uses no efforts to gain popularity; her system moves slowly, and rarely in such form as to take advantage of the interests or aspirations of the day. She never aims to be found on the side of human passions. She hesitates not to condemn those who differ with her authorized teachings, and she intimates to every man who sets up an altar against her altar that he does God and his fellow-mortals no good service, either temporal or eternal.

Whatever religious symbolism has been offered in the world hitherto as a substitute for her apostolic creed, has been founded on the principle that man is fit to take into his own hands the management of the affairs of his own soul; but the Catholic Church tells man that his private judgment is sure to mislead him in matters of religion, in spite of lofty aspirations and purity of intention; that he is bound not only to render obedience to his God, but in the manner God requires it; and nevertheless that religious direction need not be arbitrary; that it no more violates the freedom of man's will than the strong hand of a parent violates the freedom of the little child whom it leads lovingly onward and prevents from falling weakly to the ground.

No system which presents to man effort and self-restraint in the present, and advantage and freedom in the future only, can flatter his love of ease and selfish enjoyment. He is thus, at intervals at least, impatient of order, though it is heaven's first law; of legislation, though it has for its object the greatest good of the greatest number; of society, though its proper aim is to make each a friend and a helper to all, and all friends and helpers to each; and of science, that teaches him the laws of nature and the sad effects of their violation. By the same spirit is man urged to resent and cast off the restraints imposed upon him by religion and the church. But in this case, and in the others the opposition comes not from reason; it is the uprising of selfish interest or passion, assuming to speak out for the whole man, and for all time.

Again, that which is spoken against as the church is not the church; that which is spoken against as the belief, or practice, or requirement of the church, is hers perhaps in appearance, but in very truth it is not what she upholds, but what she reproves and opposes. There is a weird presentment bodied forth in English literature and called popery. It is certainly a figure of no amiable or attractive lineaments; it is worthy of the hatred of honest men. But it is not the Catholic Church. If the Catholic Church were the same thing as this ghost which goes by the name of popery, we should hate it too; for it deserves to be hated, and we are men possessing the same faculties as our neighbors who hate it. We do not hate the Catholic Church; we love her, and honor her as our mother, and so would our neighbors, if they saw her and knew her as we do.

Let us here understand the thing plainly. I uphold the doctrine and the practice of the Catholic Church; for I believe her to be the true church that the Son of God established on this earth, and ransomed at the price of his precious blood. But I can say for myself and for every Catholic who has been properly instructed in his religion, that we do not undertake to defend what has been done weakly or wickedly by men, even though they too called themselves Catholics.

I believe that light travels from east to west, and the faith which Judea gave to Rome, and Rome to Europe, and Europe to us, is the faith by which we are to be saved, if saved at all. But while thanking Europe for the true religion, I pray to my God that all the ancient feuds and heart-burnings which have distracted older countries in the name of religion may not be transplanted to this virgin soil.

Allow me to close my remarks, ladies and gentleman, with the heart-felt wish that we may all live faithful to our honest convictions, preach our religion by word and example, and force upon each other nothing but the endearing offices of fraternal charity.

FOOTNOTE:

[193] A Lecture delivered before the Young Men's Christian Association of Boston, by the late Rev. Dr. Cummings, pastor of St. Stephen's Church, New York.

DION AND THE SIBYLS.

A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.

BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.