Louis XIV, being bent upon the subjection of the Huguenots, and knowing full well that violence alone could accomplish the matter only in part, cast about in his mind for a suitable person to undertake the milder rÔle of persuasion. FÉnelon had already attracted notice both by his good work at the community of New Catholics and also by the treatise which he had written in defense of the Apostolic Succession. So when Bossuet suggested him as a suitable commissioner for the districts of Poitou and Saintonge, in the West, not far from the Protestant stronghold of La Rochelle, districts where great confusion and irritation prevailed, and where only a tender, judicious hand could hope to guide matters, the king very gladly made the appointment. FÉnelon, before accepting it, made two stipulations. One was that he should be allowed to choose his fellow-workers. He selected the AbbÉ de Langeron, his lifelong friend, the AbbÉ Fleury, the well-known historian, the AbbÉ Bertier, and the AbbÉ Milon, who later on became respectively Bishops of Blois and of Condom. The other stipulation was that the troops, together with all that savored of military terrorism, should be withdrawn before he entered on what should be solely a work of peace and mercy. There had been terrible doings and violent outrages with which FÉnelon could have no sympathy. There is no doubt whatever upon this point. His own words are abundantly on record. Although the country was so disturbed, he positively refused a military escort; and when the king represented the danger he might be exposed to, he answered: “Sire, ought a missionary to fear danger? If you hope for an apostolical harvest, we must go in the true character of apostles. I would rather perish by the hands of my mistaken brethren than see one of them exposed to the inevitable violence of the military.” In a letter to a duke he says, “The work of God is not effected in the heart by force; that is not the true spirit of the Gospel.”

He had the extremely difficult task of showing to Protestants whose property had been pillaged, whose families had been scattered, whose blood had been shed like water, the truth and excellence of the religion of their persecutors. That this could be done to any very extensive degree might well be questioned. But the missionaries were characterized by ability, mildness, prudence, benevolence, and sound judgment, and they did all that any reasonable persons could expect. The people of these provinces were amazed to see men of high birth and position leaving the court and capital to come among them. They supposed that, at all events, such men would be luxurious and haughty, as they had been told; but when, on the contrary, they saw the missionaries nothing but lowly, self-denying, simple-mannered priests, whose real aims seemed to be the temporal as well as spiritual advantage of those among whom they lived, prejudice began to melt away. In February, 1686—the mission began in December, 1685, and lasted till July, 1686, being renewed for a few months in the next year, May to July, 1687—FÉnelon wrote to the Marquis de Seignelai, Secretary of State, and brother to the Duchess de Beauvilliers: “In the present condition of men’s minds we could easily bring them all to confession and communion if we chose to use a little pressure and so glorify our mission. But what is the good of bringing men to confession who do not yet recognize the Church? How can we give Jesus Christ to those who do not believe they are receiving Him? We should expect to bring a terrible curse upon us if we were satisfied with hasty, superficial work, all meant for show. We can but multiply our instructions, invite the people to come heartily to sacraments, but give them only to those who come of their own accord to seek them in unreserved submission. I must not forget to add that we want a great quantity of books, especially New Testaments.” Again he writes later: “The corn you have sent so cheaply proves to the people that our charity is practical. It is the most persuasive kind of controversy. It amazes them, for they see the exact reverse of all their ministers have taught them as incontrovertibly true. We need preachers to explain the Gospel every Sunday with a loving, winning authority; people brought up in dissent are only to be won by the words spoken to them. We must give New Testaments profusely everywhere, but they must be in large type; the people can not read small print. We can not expect them to buy Catholic books. It is a great thing if they will read what costs them nothing; indeed the greater proportion can not afford to buy.” He wrote also to Bossuet in March, 1686, “Our converts get on, but very slowly; it is no trifling matter to change the opinions of a whole people.” It is very evident that FÉnelon had the most sincere desire for the conversion of the Protestants, believing, of course, as he did, from the bottom of his heart, that they were destined to eternal woe. Brought up in the atmosphere in which he was, he could not possibly sympathize with their position, could not regard their heroism as other than obstinacy. But such was the natural mildness of his disposition and his acquaintance with the demands of genuine religion, that he could in no way be content with a merely nominal acquiescence or consent, and with the use of that force by which such acquiescence was obtained.

His mission to Saintonge has been called a dark page in his life. Yet the strongly prejudiced writer who so characterizes it says in the same connection, after referring to FÉnelon’s firm stand against violence and the forcing of conscience: “To us this measure of clemency seems bare and scanty enough; in FÉnelon’s own time it was both unusual and effective. His counsels of mercy had weight with the minister, and led to the suppression of various abuses, civil as well as ecclesiastical. They manifestly gained for him the affection of his proselytes, and, stirring up against him the bile of the more rigid Catholics, seem to have stood in the way of his promotion to the bishopric.” It was a little after this that he was appointed to the See of Poitiers, which was the chief city of Poitou, but De Harlai, who by this time was anything but a friend, succeeded in getting it immediately revoked; and the next year the archbishop was again successful in his unworthy maneuvers. The Bishop of Rochelle had been greatly impressed by the zeal and gentle wisdom of the young missioner, and he now came to Paris, without giving FÉnelon any hint of his intention, to ask the king to appoint him as Coadjutor Bishop of Rochelle. It would have been done but for the insinuations of De Harlai that the attraction between the two men was a mutual leaning to Jansenism, and as this was always a sore point with Louis, he at once refused to make the appointment. FÉnelon might easily have refuted these assertions—for there was not a word of truth in them, as his close friendship with Bossuet, Tronson, and others, showed—but he did not take the trouble so to do. He was not ambitious of dignities.

Was his mission to Saintonge and Poitou a dark page in his history? We can hardly look upon it in this light. It seems to us that he comes out of it with considerable credit. Can we take it amiss in him that he was a stanch adherent of the Roman Catholic Church, not only at this time, but throughout all his life? Not if we are reasonable, and do not demand miracles where there is no occasion for expecting them. Shall we withhold our admiration from those who do not rise entirely superior to all their surroundings, and see things as we, in totally different conditions, see them? In that case, dealt with after so harsh a judgment, we ourselves might come off badly, and we should most certainly have to bar out from our favor a very large proportion of the men who have done the most for the world’s advancement.

It was about this same time that Sir Matthew Hale in England (he died in 1676)—who was reckoned the best judge of his time, acute, learned, sensible, setting himself strongly against bribery, one of the serious vices of his age, a friend of Richard Baxter, an austere scholar, leaning to the side of the Puritans—sentenced women to be executed for witchcraft, and sent John Bunyan to jail for frequenting conventicles, politely dismissing, without redress, his wife, who pleaded for his discharge. And in our own time we have seen the Earl of Shaftesbury, who did such wonderful things for the oppressed in some directions, most bitter against the reformers in all other lines except his own, the stanchest of Tories, and the most rigid of Churchmen, denouncing the democratic principle as anti-Christian, and upholding the infamous Conventicle Act, which forbade worship in a private house by more than twenty persons. Similar inconsistencies can be pointed out in the record of nearly all good men. What does it prove? Simply that it is given to very few to rise much above the age in which they live, or to be at all points independent of the impress placed upon them in their early years. We see no reason to believe that FÉnelon’s attitude toward the Protestants of his day was other than an entirely sincere and conscientious one, such as might be fairly looked for in a person of his surroundings.

It is possible to impute sinister and selfish motives to any, if one is so disposed, but we see no benefit from this policy. It is not the way we would wish to be treated ourselves. Almost every act of a man’s life is susceptible of an evil construction, if sufficient pains is taken and sufficient force applied. But we can not join with those who appear to delight in pulling down from their pedestals all that have been lifted above their fellows in goodness by the general suffrage of mankind. Truth, of course, is to be sought at all costs. But it makes a vast difference from what standpoint the facts are approached, whether with suspicion and aversion, or cordial appreciation and comprehension. There is often an underlying dislike to a certain type of character or to certain sentiments and opinions, because of the wide difference between them and those which the writer himself holds and practices, which makes it impossible that he should see them in an unbiased light. We can not escape the conclusion that FÉnelon has been treated by some recent writers in this manner, and we protest against its unfairness.

It may be truthfully said that FÉnelon, while doing faithfully what appeared to him the duty of the hour on this mission, did not particularly enjoy it. He had no love for life in the country or for the work in which he was engaged. He longed for the quiet of his former post, with its larger opportunities for study and reflection, and for the time when he should be free to return to Paris. In a letter to Bossuet he playfully threatens to bring suspicion of heresy upon himself or “incur a lucky disgrace” that might give him excuse for his recall. He was permitted, shortly after this, to go back to his place at the New Catholics, where for some two years more he occupied himself in a quiet, inconspicuous manner. Summing up the results of his controversial work among the Huguenots, we are disposed to conclude, with one of his biographers, that “if his moderation and humanity in an age in which such qualities were not esteemed, were remembered against him when other clouds were gathering, and contributed to his ultimate ruin, they add no less grace to the record of his life, and must have deepened his influence with those whose eyes were undimmed by prejudice and bigotry.”

The most important period in the life of FÉnelon was now to begin; that for which the earlier years were but a preparation; that which would color and dominate all his succeeding days. The time had come when the little grandson of the king, the Duke of Burgundy, the hope of France (for his father, the dauphin, was a failure, wholly incompetent to fill any large place), should pass from the hands of nurses to masculine rule. What could be of greater importance, considering how much was at stake for the kingdom, than the proper selection of those who should take this weighty charge? When the dauphin had been at a similar stage of his education he was committed to the care of the Duke de Montausier and Bossuet as the greatest and most celebrated men of their day. But though they did their best, the course they took was not in all respects well advised, and the results, at least, had not been satisfactory. This would make the utmost care now all the more imperative. Happily the king was fully alive to his responsibility, and, in addition to his own penetration, had the benefit of good counsel in the matter. Madame de Maintenon was now a power at court, and was using her influence in the best directions. She was a warm friend of the Duke de Beauvilliers, who also stood high in the good graces of Louis; for the monarch, in spite of his own serious lapses from virtue, admired it in others, and knew its importance with the young. The duke was accordingly made governor of the royal grandchildren, Burgundy and his two younger brothers, with unlimited power of nominating all the other officers about them and all the inferior attendants. He had no hesitation as to the best preceptor France could produce for the little prince, and immediately named FÉnelon, a choice which was loudly applauded by the public throughout the kingdom. The people said that Louis the Great had once more outshone all earlier monarchs, and shown himself wiser than Phillip of Macedon when he appointed Aristotle tutor to his son. Bossuet was overjoyed at the good fortune of Church and State, and regretted only that the Marquis de FÉnelon had not lived to see an elevation of the merit which hid itself with so much care. It was a great surprise to the recipient, who was leading his ordinary retired life, neither seeking nor expecting court favor. It was a great gratification to his friends, who poured in lavish congratulations. But M. Tronson, the wise old tutor from St. Sulpice, wrote that his joy was mixed with fear, considering the perils to which his favorite pupil would now be exposed. He says: “It opens the door to earthly greatness, but you must fear lest it should close that of the real greatness of heaven. You are thrown into a region where the Gospel of Jesus Christ is little known, and where even those who know it use their knowledge chiefly as a means to win human respect. If ever the study and meditation of Holy Scripture were necessary to you, now indeed they have become overwhelmingly indispensable. Above all, it is of infinite importance that you never lose sight of the final hour of death, when all this world’s glory will fade away like a dream, and every earthly stay on which you may have leaned must fail.” This counsel was most creditable to both tutor and pupil, showing a love stronger than ordinary friendship. The post which seemed so dazzling and so promising did indeed prove one of much danger as well as glory, but not exactly in the way that the aged teacher anticipated.

The Duke of Burgundy, now seven years old, was, in the most emphatic sense, an enfant terrible. He was very different from his heavy, stupid father, inheriting some of his qualities, it is said, from his mother, Mary Anne of Bavaria, a delicate, melancholy, unattractive princess, passionate, proud, and caustic. Burgundy was a frail, unhealthy creature, whose body lacked symmetry as well as his mind. One shoulder very early outgrew the other, defying the most cruel efforts of the surgeons to set it right, and doing serious mischief to his general health. His nervous system was much deranged, so that he was subject to hurricanes of passion. The least contradiction made him furious. He would fall into ungovernable fits of rage even against inanimate objects. He had an insatiable appetite for all sorts of pleasure. His pride and arrogance were indescribable. Mankind he looked upon as atoms with whom he had nothing in common; his brothers were only intermediate beings between him and the human race. He had a quick, penetrating mind, and a marvelous memory. He was stiff against threats, on his guard against flattery, amenable only to reason; but by no means always to that. Often when it reasserted itself, after one of his tornadoes, he was so much ashamed of himself that he fell into a new fit of rage. He was, however, frank and truthful in the extreme.

Such was the prince who—with his brothers, the Duke of Anjou, afterwards Philip V of Spain, and the Duke of Berri—was committed entirely to the care of FÉnelon. When he accepted his new appointment he abandoned all other offices and occupations, permitting himself no distractions even of friendship, that he might concentrate all his powers of insight and reflection upon his charges. Now, indeed, his studies of education would be fully tested, and on the most conspicuous conceivable field his theories must be reduced to practice. It is said that “he pursued only one system, which was to have none.” In other words, he devoted his fertile mind to meeting the necessities of the hour as they arose in his volatile, chameleon-like pupil, instead of subjecting him to a Procrustean system which could only have had the worst outcome. His facile pen was employed without stint in the service of his pupil. Many fables, some in French, some in Latin, full of poetry and grace, were written to convey special lessons to the little duke. “Dialogues of the Dead” also were composed for the same purpose, bringing in the principal personages of antiquity to converse on such themes as would instruct in regard to history and morals. And all this was but a preparation for “Telemaque,” or Telemachus, composed for the instruction of the heir to the throne, and endowed with such unfailing charm by the beauty of its style and the admirable nature of its sentences, that it has been read ever since in many nations and by many classes. The same mythology is employed in it that was used by Homer and Virgil, but refined by the knowledge of the Divine revelation and adorned by a tincture of Christianity that runs easily through the whole narrative. The best classical and moral maxims are placed before the mind of the reader, animated with love and heightened with action. The author shows that the glory of a prince is to govern men in such a way as to make them good and happy; that his authority is never so firmly established as in the love of his people; that the true riches and prosperity of a State consists in taking away what ministers to general luxury, and in being content with innocent and simple pleasures.

But, as may well be supposed, it was not the intellectual means alone—the text-books that were prepared, the treatises that were written, the pains taken with instruction—which most awaken our admiration, but rather the good sense shown in the various special expedients that were employed as from time to time they were found adapted to the needs of the case. Every effort was made to relieve study from tedium. Lessons were abandoned whenever the prince wished to begin a conversation from which he might derive useful information. There were frequent intervals for exercise. Learning was turned into a pleasure. The real struggle was with his fiery temperament, which had been hitherto so badly mismanaged, and which could only be met by patience and gentleness with firmness. When one of the evil moods seized him, it was an understood thing in the household that every one should relapse into an unwonted silence. Nobody spoke to him if they could help it; his attendants waited upon him with averted eyes as though reluctant to witness his degradation through passion. He was treated with the sort of humiliating compassion which might be shown to a madman; his books and appliances for study were put aside as useless to one in such a state, and he was left to his own reflections. Such a course was the destruction of self-complacency; he ceased to find relief in swearing when his hearers ceased to be disconcerted by his abuse, and, being left to consider the situation in solitude, he saw himself for the first time as others saw him. Gradually this treatment would bring the passionate but generous child to a better mind, and then, full of remorse and penitence, he would come to throw himself with the fullest affection and trust upon the never-failing patience and goodness of the preceptor, whom he almost worshiped to his dying day.

FÉnelon had studied childhood, and knew how deeply rooted is the child’s fear of ridicule; in the prince it was exaggerated by his abnormal vanity, and a system which showed him how he degraded himself, and lost all shadow of dignity when he lost his self-control, was the surest to produce a radical reform. There are still in existence two pledges of his childish repentance, testifying to the difficulty with which his faults were conquered. “I promise, on my word as a prince to M. l’AbbÉ de FÉnelon, that I will do at once whatever he bids me, and will obey him instantly in what he forbids; and if I break my word I will accept any kind of punishment and disgrace. Given at Versailles, November 29, 1689. Louis.” This promise, in spite of the word of a prince, was probably broken; for many months later he enters on another engagement pathetic in its brevity: “Louis, who promises afresh to keep his promise better. This 20th of September, I beseech M. de FÉnelon to take it again.” He was at this time but eight years old. The child loved his teacher passionately, and it was seldom that he did not yield speedily to FÉnelon’s wise and loving discipline.