Her friends were not idle, and finally, by the intercession of Madame de Miramion, Madame de Maisonfort, and the Duchesses Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, acting through Madame de Maintenon upon the king, Madame Guyon was released in October, 1688. On being set free she took up her residence at the house of Madame de Miramion, and resumed her labor for souls as opportunity presented itself. Early in 1690 her daughter was married to Count de Vaux, a man of high character, brother of the Duchess de Bethune and nephew of the Duchess de Charost; and as the child was scarcely fourteen she went to live with her a little way out of the city. Here FÉnelon visited frequently, and when she had once more returned to Paris, hiring a private house for herself there in 1692, he met her much.

What of her influence upon him? Those not in sympathy with her ideas, by whom indeed the inner things of the kingdom are pertly dubbed “nonsense,” have called her “the evil genius of his life,” and ascribed to her what they are pleased to term his ruin and downfall. We are very certain that he did not himself regard either it or her in that light. They had very much in common. There was the same hunger after the highest religious attainments, and their ideas as to the path were at bottom the same. FÉnelon had the theological training which she lacked, and hence found difficulty with many of her expressions, which seemed to him objectionable and liable to misapprehension, as doubtless they were. But it seems altogether probable that at this time she was more advanced in the spiritual life, more perfectly taught of God, than he. Hence, in the extended correspondence which took place between them, covering a space of some two years or more, from its beginning in November, 1688, it is usually he who asks the questions and seeks for explanations. She responded with entire patience and deep religious insight, taking all possible pains, as may well be supposed, with so distinguished yet so docile a pupil. To one with so clear an intellect and so sympathetic a spirit she could express her thought with the utmost freedom, and his enlightened, powerful mind, untrammeled by the prejudices which so often prevented—and always prevents—correct perceptions, readily saw the validity of her views. She herself says: “I was enabled in our conversations so fully to explain everything to FÉnelon that he gradually entered into the views which the Lord had led me to entertain, and finally gave them his unqualified assent. The persecutions which he has since suffered are the evidence of the sincerity of his belief.” If he was greatly indebted to her, as everything appears to prove—and as many other eminent men have been to godly women—for getting into a much closer conformity to the will of God, it is no wonder that he was never willing to unite with her enemies in her condemnation, although every earthly motive was on that side.

It was in 1692 that the acquaintance of Madame Guyon with Madame de Maintenon became somewhat intimate, so much so that she was often invited to the royal palace at Versailles, and was introduced to the celebrated institution at St. Cyr. Being given liberty to visit the young ladies there, she talked with them on religious subjects, and speedily acquired the strongest possible influence over them. This soon brought her name into general notice, and excited once more intense hostility. One of her servants was bribed to poison her, and almost succeeded. She suffered from the effects for seven years. It is at this time that Bossuet—confessedly the leader of the French Church by reason of reputation, learning, and intellectual strength—became alarmed at the reports he heard of the strange influence of this woman in high quarters, and determined to put forth his splendid powers for the extinction of what he deemed a new heresy. His first interview with her took place in September, 1693, his second, January 30, 1694. He found much to admire in her positions, but he judged by the head rather than the heart, and was not fully satisfied. Accordingly she wrote to Madame de Maintenon, asking that a number of suitable persons might be selected to carefully examine her doctrines and her morals; for her character as well as her teachings had been loudly assailed, as is customary in such situations. The king approved of the plan, and appointed three commissioners, the most eminent for virtues and talents that could well be selected, which was a marked tribute to the intellectual power and personal influence of Madame Guyon. They were Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux; M. Tronson, Superior of the Seminary of St. Sulpice; and M. de Noailles, Bishop of Chalons, afterwards the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris. These persons had many meetings in 1694 and 1695, and drew up what were known as the Articles of Issy. FÉnelon, being on terms of the greatest intimacy with these three theologians, was in frequent communication with them concerning the matter, and was often consulted, especially by Bossuet, while the articles were being framed. When they were completed he was asked to sign them, which, after a few changes and the addition of four articles which he deemed essential to prevent misconception, he gladly did. Even Madame Guyon gave her assent to them, although they bore rather hardly on some of her positions, without mentioning her name, and were expressly designed to protect the public against her alleged extravagances.

She was at this time in a sort of confinement in the Convent of St. Mary, in Meaux, under Bossuet’s supervision. He had many interviews with her, and, in a letter to the prioress of the convent, said expressly that “he had examined the writings of Madame Guyon with great care, and found in them nothing censurable, with the exception of some terms which were not wholly conformed to the strictness of theology; but that a woman was not expected to be a theologian.” He also, at her desire, after six months’ residence, gave her a certificate speaking in the most favorable terms of her character and conduct. But no sooner was she again in Paris than her enemies started at once into life. The king was alarmed lest Quietism—a system of faith and practice at the complete antipodes from his own—should gain further currency, and Madame de Maintenon, taking her cue from him, as she always did, ranged herself promptly with its enemies. Bossuet also, finding that he had been more lenient toward her than was politic, demanded back from Madame Guyon his certificate. This she could not consent to surrender, and he set himself with full determination to crush her. December 27, 1695, she was arrested and incarcerated in the castle of Vincennes, where she underwent for nine months a very severe imprisonment. She says: “I passed my time in great peace, content to spend the remainder of my life there if such should be the will of God. I employed part of my time in writing religious songs.” In August, 1696, she was transferred to another prison at Vaugiraud, a village near Paris, where she remained till September, 1698, and was then immured in one of the stern, dark towers of the dreaded Bastile, where she remained four years more in solitary confinement. Just previous to her commitment there she writes: “I feel no anxiety in view of what my enemies will do to me. I have no fear of anything but of being left to myself. So long as God is with me, neither imprisonment nor death will have any terrors.” A little later she writes: “I, being in the Bastile, said to Thee, O my God, if Thou art pleased to render me a spectacle to men and angels, Thy holy will be done. All that I ask is that Thou wilt be with me and save those who love Thee. As for me, what matters it what men think of me or what they make me suffer, since they can not separate me from that Savior whose name is engraven in the very bottom of my heart. If I can only be accepted of Him, I am willing that all men should despise and hate me. Their strokes will polish what may be defective in me, so that I may be presented in peace to Him for whom I die daily.” Her language was:

And similar are the beautiful words of her hymn:

She made no complaints of those who so cruelly used her. “They believed that they did well,” was her only comment. The Spirit of her Savior was with her: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” In her biography, written later, she says, “I entreat all such persons as shall read this narrative not to indulge in hard or embittered feelings against those who have treated me with unkindness.” Her sufferings were terrible, but the fortitude and resolution with which she endured them, the steadfastness of her faith, and the meekness of her bearing, are worthy of all praise. She does not seem to have doubted for a moment the goodness and truth of God. Her theories were put to the severest of tests, and they did not fail her. It is marvelous that she lived to emerge from the gloomy walls that were the grave of such numbers, or that the tyrannical, bigoted king ever relented so far as to let her go forth. She was liberated when fifty-four years of age (it being evident that she could not survive another year of imprisonment), reduced to great feebleness, her constitution utterly shattered. Yet her enemies were still afraid to let her stay in the neighborhood of Paris; so she was banished for the rest of her life to Blois, one hundred miles away, on the river Loire. There, subjected to constant maladies which often brought her to the verge of death, but supported by abundant spiritual consolations, she did good as she had opportunity to the great numbers of people who came to see her. Her departure from earth occurred June 9, 1717, and was both peaceful and triumphant. Just before death, writing to her brother, she says, “Whatever may happen, turn not your eye back upon the world; look forward and onward to the heavenly mansions: be strong in faith, fight courageously the battles of the Lord.” Writing to another friend, and referring to her pains, which she said were so great as to call into exercise all the resources and aids of faith, she adds: “Grace was triumphant. It is trying to nature, but I can still say in this last struggle that I love the Hand that smites me.” She said in her last hours, “I rely for my salvation, not on any good works in myself, but on Thy mercies, O my God, and on the merits and sufferings of my Lord Jesus Christ.” She had no faith in the doctrine of transubstantiation, read the Scriptures much, and urged others to study them, insisting constantly upon the necessity of a real sanctification of the heart by the Holy Spirit. That she was one of the high saints of God, her soul a real temple of the Holy Ghost, can in no way be questioned. It is also certain that she had great intellectual power, and in the main taught most important and sacred truth. It is easy to find fault with many of her expressions, but her spirit is beyond praise. That she did on the whole a grand good work and will have a high place in glory, we are fully convinced.

We come now to the great conflict between Bossuet and FÉnelon. Up to this time they had been friends, at least outwardly. But there are grounds for believing that FÉnelon’s growing and prospective influence aroused the envy of the ambitious Bossuet, who, no more than the king, was disposed to brook a rival; and the Quietist controversy speedily took on a character which brought the two bishops into the most direct antagonism. Bossuet completed, after long labor, early in 1696, an exceedingly able book against Quietism, entitled “Instructions on the States of Prayer.” He secured the approval of the other members of the Conference at Issy, and wished to append a favorable testimonial from FÉnelon also. The latter examined the manuscript with care, and was obliged to withhold his indorsement. He did so on two grounds: He thought it contained an absolutely unqualified denial of the possibility of the pure, disinterested love of God; and he considered its censures of Madame Guyon too personal and too severe. He was perfectly aware that the refusal to comply with the wishes of Bossuet would be a mortal offense to that haughty, self-willed prelate, and would also displease the king, probably blasting his worldly prospects. But as a man of honor and of true Christian principle he could not and did not hesitate. Writing to M. Tronson at this time, he says, “Am I wrong in wishing not to believe evil sooner than can be helped, and in refusing to curry favor by acting against my conscience?” He declared that he would not attack “a poor woman who is trodden down by so many, and whose friend I have been,” for the sake of dispelling suspicion against himself; that he would not speak against his conscience or recklessly insult a person whom he had respected as a saint. “It would be infamous weakness in me,” he said, “to speak doubtfully in relation to her character in order to free myself from oppression.” Other extracts from his letters at this time, had we space to give them, would show conclusively the high ground he took, the only ground which his own character and self-respect, as well as his feeling of gratitude toward the persecuted woman, could possibly permit. Had he done otherwise, what would the world now think of him?

His chief friends approved his course, but insisted that he must write his views in full. He did so, producing his elaborate work called “The Maxims of the Saints,” published in January, 1697. Without naming Madame Guyon, it was in fact her defense, the exposition of her opinions as he understood them, and as she had explained them to him in private. It was hailed as a golden work by Cardinal de Noailles, M. Tronson, the Bishop of Chartres, and many other leading men of France.[8] But Bossuet was roused to fury. “Take your own measures,” he said to these men; “I will raise my voice to the heavens against these errors so well known to you; I will complain to Rome, and to the whole earth. It shall not be said that the cause of God is weakly betrayed. Though I should stand singly in it, I will advocate it.” But none better knew than he that so far from standing singly in it he had the warmest possible backing from the king. Louis XIV had no love for FÉnelon. He had raised him to certain dignities, partly because of his uncommon abilities, and partly because of his favor with the public, rather than as a sign of any personal attachment. FÉnelon was, throughout his life, the very embodiment of all that Louis did not like, and this, considering Louis’ character, was one of his chief glories. The two men were so far apart in most things, and their minds were so differently constituted that there was no common bond of sympathy, and the only wonder is how they got along together as well as they did. FÉnelon, while possessing a great superiority of genius, exhibited also an elevation of moral and personal character of which the king stood in awe, and he was glad that the accusation of heresy gave him a good opportunity to be rid of his uncomfortable presence.

The battle was now on, and it was between two giants. Bossuet, the eagle, was essentially masculine, marked by solidity, vigor, and logic. FÉnelon, the swan, was essentially feminine, filled with tenderness, spiritual enthusiasm, aspiration. Bossuet had the experience of age, FÉnelon the full powers of middle manhood; Bossuet had the greater skill in argument, FÉnelon the richer imagination. Bossuet in style, it has been said, reminds one of the expansive and philosophical mind of Burke, combined with the heavy strength and dictatorial manner of Johnson. FÉnelon had a large share of the luxuriant imagination of Jeremy Taylor, chastened by the refined taste and classic ease of Addison. FÉnelon was naturally mild and forbearing in disposition, but inflexible in his principles and incapable of being influenced by pleasures on the one hand, or by threats on the other; he was amiable without weakness, firm without bitterness. Bossuet, on the other hand, was a man of strong passions, accustomed to ascendency, impatient of opposition, and, as the contest went on, irritated by the unexpected difficulties he encountered, he resorted to means for the carrying of his cause which have left a lasting stain upon his name. But FÉnelon came forth from the ordeal, even as John Fletcher did in his controversy with Toplady, elevated all the higher in the admiration of mankind. Bossuet, in the course of the contest, referring to one of FÉnelon’s publications, made the following remark: “His friends say everywhere that his reply is a triumphant work, and that he has great advantages in it over me. We shall see hereafter whether it is so.” FÉnelon thereupon addressed a letter to Bossuet in the following terms: “May heaven forbid that I should strive for victory over any person, least of all over you. It is not man’s victory, but God’s glory which I seek; and happy, thrice happy shall I be if that object is secured, though it should be attended with my confusion and with your triumph. There is no occasion, therefore, to say, ‘We shall see who will have the advantage.’ I am ready now, without waiting for future developments, to acknowledge that you are my superior in science, in genius, in everything that usually commands attention. And in respect to the controversy between us, there is nothing which I wish more than to be vanquished by you if the positions which I take are wrong. Two things only do I desire—truth and peace; truth which may enlighten, and peace which may unite us.”

The two combatants put forth all their strength, and the conflict attracted the eyes of all Europe. Book followed book in close and quick succession on both sides. Each of the antagonists showed a thorough mastery of the subject, and exerted himself to the utmost, stimulated by the importance of the struggle and the large issues at stake, not only of a personal nature but of a general character. The whole Christian world looked on with deep interest.

The chief doctrine that FÉnelon set himself to defend is summarized by Upham in the following three propositions: “First, the provisions of the Gospel are such that men may gain the entire victory over their sinful propensities, and may live in constant and accepted communion with God; second, persons are in this state when they love God with all their heart; in other words, with pure or unselfish love; third, there have been instances of Christians, though probably few in number, who, so far as can be decided by man’s imperfect judgment, have reached this state, and it is the duty of all, encouraged by the ample provision which is made, to strive to attain to it.” But the main issue was speedily confused with an abundance of side questions, particular sentences and parts of sentences being picked out for attack, much space being taken, as in all such cases, with merely verbal criticisms founded on misconceptions or on the necessary imperfection of language. The celebrated Leibnitz remarked that, before the war of words between Bossuet and FÉnelon began, the prelates should have agreed on a definition of the word love, and that such a definition might have prevented the dispute. The worst thing was that Bossuet, driven to extremities by the trouble he found in making headway theologically and fearing defeat, descended to a personal attack on FÉnelon’s character, insinuating things which he had not the audacity to state plainly or the facts to substantiate. This, of course, reacted. For FÉnelon—against his own wishes, but being shown the necessity of it by his friends—wrote a marvelous reply, of which Charles Butler, one of his biographers, and by no means a partisan one, says: “A nobler effusion of the indignation of insulted virtue and genius, eloquence has never produced. In the very first lines of it FÉnelon placed himself above his antagonist, and to the last preserves his elevation. Never did genius and virtue obtain a more complete triumph. FÉnelon’s reply, by a kind of enchantment, restored to him every heart. Crushed by the strong arm of power, abandoned by the multitude, there was nothing to which he could look but his own powers. Obliged to fight for his honor, it was necessary for him, if he did not consent to sink under the accusation, to assume a port still more imposing than that of his mighty antagonist. Much had been expected from him; but none supposed that he would raise himself to so prodigious a height as would not only repel the attack of his antagonist but entirely reduce him to the defensive.”

It was seen at an early period of the controversy that there was no probability of its being settled by any tribunal short of that of the pope himself. FÉnelon, seeing the unscrupulous, powerful forces that were arrayed against him in Paris, applied to the king in July, 1697, for permission to go to Rome under any restrictions His Majesty might think appropriate. This the monarch absolutely refused, knowing well, no doubt, that the personal charm of the saintly disputant would be likely to carry everything before it. He would only permit him to send agents there to act in his behalf. FÉnelon himself he curtly ordered to proceed immediately to his diocese, to remain there, and not to stop in Paris on the way any longer than his affairs made his stay absolutely necessary. FÉnelon received this undeserved sentence of banishment, very roughly couched, with his customary calmness and submission. In passing through the city he stopped before the seminary of St. Sulpice, where he had spent so many happy hours, and which he was never to see again; but he forbore from entering the house lest his showing a regard for it might expose its inhabitants to His Majesty’s displeasure. The king, with his own hands, some time after this, crossed off FÉnelon’s name from the list of court officials, and also dismissed from service every one connected with him, save only the AbbÉ Fleury, who, though a devoted friend of the archbishop, had never taken any part in the exciting topics of the day. But the rest who had been employed about the Duke of Burgundy for nine years, not blamelessly alone but how successfully his altered character and advanced education could show, were rudely sent off without any acknowledgment whatever of their valuable services, without even a civil word or a penny of reward.

And how went matters at Rome? The AbbÉ de Chanterac, an intimate friend and relation, of highest probity and piety, was FÉnelon’s agent there. The AbbÉ Bossuet, a nephew of the bishop, a vulgar, blustering, unscrupulous fellow, with a most violent, intemperate spirit, fitly represented the interests of his uncle. The pope, Innocent XII, a man of a benevolent and equitable temper, found his position a very difficult one, somewhat similar to that of Pilate at the trial of Jesus. His sympathies were wholly with FÉnelon, and there is no doubt that he would gladly have given a verdict in his favor, or dismissed the whole matter, could he have done so without mortally offending the king. He had at first hoped that the business might be settled in France by mild and conciliatory measures, and had expressed this wish to Louis; but the suggestion was entirely unavailing. So he was obliged to take up the very unpleasant task. He appointed a commission of ten persons called “Consulters” to give a thorough examination of FÉnelon’s books. But after sixty-four successive and protracted sittings of six or seven hours each, at many of which the pope himself assisted, they found themselves so evenly divided in relation to it that no satisfactory result could reasonably be expected from the continuance of their deliberations. The pope accordingly selected a commission of cardinals to pronounce upon the matter; but after twelve sittings they were unable to come to any conclusion, and were dissolved. Next a new congregation of cardinals were selected, and met in consultation no less than fifty-two times without getting on very far. The long delays and the hesitation shown at Rome to condemn FÉnelon were utterly unexpected by either Bossuet or the king, and made them furious. Constantly increasing pressure was brought to bear from Paris to secure the result pleasing to the monarch.

At the very beginning, in July, 1697, the king, by Bossuet’s instigation, wrote an urgent letter to the pope calling upon him speedily to condemn FÉnelon’s book. Missive after missive of similar purport went forward, and all the arts of diplomacy, all the influences which Louis could in any way exert, were unblushingly employed for FÉnelon’s overthrow. Affairs at Rome, indeed, before long involved themselves into a perfect tangle of chicanery and intrigue, cardinal against cardinal, ambassador against ambassador. Other courts besides that of France took a hand. The imperial ambassador worked hard for FÉnelon; the Spanish minister was zealous on the other side; and a smaller potentate, Cosmo, Grand Duke of Tuscany, a dabbler in theology, threw his weight in the latter direction. The poor pope was violently pulled, now this way, now that. He greatly liked FÉnelon, admiring his beautiful spirit and appreciating his loyal attachment to the Holy See. He resented the disgraceful attempt to browbeat him on the part of the desperate king and the Bishop of Meaux, a pragmatical, pugnacious bully. He could scarcely see any way of censuring any of FÉnelon’s propositions without censuring also other writers of the same sort, like St. Bernard and St. Francis of Sales, whom the Church had delighted to honor. It seemed to him also, as was indeed the case, almost if not quite wholly a dispute about words. As to a habitual state of disinterested Divine love, the attainment of which was said to be inculcated in FÉnelon’s writings, FÉnelon himself uniformly declared his opinion that a permanent state of Divine love, without hope and without fear, was above the lot of man. And Bossuet himself allowed that there might be moments when the soul, dedicated to the love of God, would be lost in heavenly contemplation, and then love and adore without being influenced by either hope or fear, or being sensible of either. Their real ground of difference was, after all, very small, and there was much to be said on both sides. And, under all these circumstances, it is scarcely surprising that it took so long to reach a decision.

It was postponed from month to month in the hope that some chance—the death of the king or of Bossuet—might relieve the pressure, and allow the papal conscience its rights as against the papal policy. As late as the autumn of 1698, a whole year after the conference of the ten “Consulters” began, five of them persisted, in defiance of every pressure that could be brought to bear upon them, in pronouncing the book to be absolutely orthodox, and so proceedings had to be begun again. The real issue of the struggle had probably never been doubtful in case the French court insisted. For, as the cardinals said: “It will not do to fire great guns at the king. Rome’s wisest course demands of her to yield to him whatever may be yielded without wounding the first principles of religion.” It is absolutely certain that, but for this unseemly influence, the decision would have been in FÉnelon’s favor. As it was, the pope and his advisers struggled hard to wriggle out of their dilemma with as little violence to their feelings and their honor as they could. After it was settled that they must in some way give the decision as the king so imperatively demanded, there were a great many meetings of the Conclave to decide on the precise form it should take. This required months of wrangling and debate. It was at first intended to issue a simple brief, distinctly affirming that His Holiness did not intend to condemn the author’s explanations of his book, but giving some general disapproval of certain inferences drawn from it, and asserting the Church’s true doctrine as opposed to the Quietists, without casting any blame on the Archbishop of Cambrai. This would have been done had not Bossuet’s agents at Rome, assisted by the Cardinal Cassanata, a man of most imperious will and overbearing temper, exerted themselves to the utmost, fortified by fresh letters from the king dictated by Bossuet, insisting, with hardly veiled threats of the direful consequences that would ensue from disobedience, that the decision be “clear, precise, capable of no misinterpretation, such as is necessary to remove all doubt with regard to doctrine and eradicate the very root of the evil.” Thus badgered and driven and terrified, there seemed to be nothing to do but submit; so at length, on the 12th of March, the whole Sacred College was assembled at the palace of Monte Cavallo, where the decree was accepted by the whole body of cardinals, signed by the pope in their presence, and immediately posted in all the principal public places of Rome.

The book itself, strictly speaking, was not condemned, but only twenty-three propositions which purported to be extracted from it. The pope took pains to say, and to have it clearly understood, that they were condemned, not in the sense which they might bear or in the sense in which they were explained by FÉnelon himself. The propositions were said to be condemned because, not being worded in conformity with the author’s real intentions, they might insensibly lead the faithful to errors already condemned by the Catholic Church; because they contained words which, in the sense that more immediately presented itself were rash, ill-sounding, offensive to pious ears, and erroneous. The cardinals refused to associate the name of heretic, or of anything resembling heresy, with FÉnelon—his name, indeed, was not once mentioned in the brief—and they absolutely rejected the usual appendage to a brief of condemnation, an order for the book to be burned. Very little was really decided. The words were very gentle, and in important ways noncommittal. Disinterestedness in the larger sense was neither asserted nor denied; all that was done was to prune FÉnelon’s system of what might be considered its extravagances. In pronouncing, on the whole, against the “Maxims,” Rome had not really declared for Bossuet. FÉnelon could lawfully tell his friends that disinterestedness was not condemned, but only its exaggerated statement; self-interest had not been made an essential condition of our love of God,—it was still possible to love Him for Himself, provided that hope and desire of heaven were not habitually of set purpose excluded. All this soothed the sorrows of the friends of FÉnelon’s, as it was designed to do, and considerably mortified his enemies, which mortification was increased by a bon mot of the pope, which was soon in every mouth, that “FÉnelon was in fault for too great love of God; and his enemies equally in fault for too little love of their neighbor.” The pope, indeed, had repeatedly called FÉnelon “a very great archbishop, most pious, most holy, most learned;” and he gave to the AbbÉ de Chanterac every indication of the extreme reluctance with which he moved in the matter.

It was, on the whole, a very barren victory for Bossuet; but he accepted it rather than run any further risk in the long-drawn-out contest, of which all parties were thoroughly weary. It had cost him dear in both reputation and character. No one now, however small his admiration for FÉnelon, attempts to defend the steps which Bossuet took or the dishonorable means to which in his desperation he resorted to compass his end. He contended not lawfully, and deserves no crown. He showed an irritation, rancor, bitterness, and malignity most lamentable; used invective, artifice, and garbled quotations; sullied himself forever by the course he took. With brutal irony and savage harshness he hectored, threatened, plotted, violated confidences, and made accusations as base as they were reckless. He used without scruple secret writings which he had received from Madame Guyon, private letters written to him by FÉnelon during their early intimacy, and a letter which, under the seal of friendship, FÉnelon had written to Madame de Maintenon, and which in this trying hour she unfeelingly communicated to Bossuet, having entirely changed in her attitude toward him since the king’s animosity was evident. Bossuet’s personal charges against his amiable and estimable adversary, not believed by any one, showed the innate smallness of his nature, the desperate strait to which he was driven, and the degree to which he had let jealousy and rivalry of one greater than he take possession of his bosom. That he himself was of plebeian birth—a bar which kept him from the goal of his ambition in the cardinalate—while FÉnelon was of the patricians, had doubtless something to do with it. He squandered his waning powers on a controversy which added no luster to his reputation, and brought him no nearer to the summit of his desires. Too late he realized that it was impossible to ruin such a man as FÉnelon in the eyes of those who had learned to love him. He might be banished from the Vatican and from Versailles, silenced by the pope, and disgraced by the king, but he was cherished none the less in the hearts of the devout, idolized and adored as an oracle of piety and virtue.

FÉnelon was not once betrayed into abuse or slander throughout the struggle in which he had so much at stake. No unkind word respecting any of his persecutors escaped him. He continually exhibited wonderful gentleness and dignity, elevated self-respect, the urbanity of a refined gentleman, and the grace of an exalted Christian. His style was forcible and effective, but with no mixture of sarcasm. Posterity has done him justice; has affirmed that throughout this contest no stain rests upon his moral character, and that he was absolutely sincere when he said, “I ask God to grant M. de Meaux as many blessings as he has heaped crosses upon me;” curses, he might have said. All this while his enemies were using every means “to hunt him down like a wild beast;” this was the expression they used. “Never once,” says a person who has thoroughly examined the entire correspondence, “in the mass of letters that FÉnelon sent to his confidential agent at Rome, do we come across a mean or unjust expression; there is not one letter that one feels inclined to wish had not been kept for the sake of the writer.” As attack after attack descends upon him, intended to humiliate and crush, he rises above it, greater and nobler, more faithful in following his Master’s footsteps than ever. He continually implored the pope to stop the endless war of pamphlets which was doing so much harm to the cause of religion and the Church. It was with the greatest reluctance that he was forced into the fight. Under the grossest of libels he would have remained silent had his friends consented. But he was compelled by the actions of his adversaries to speak out sometimes with great vigor. And he had to obey the voice of his conscience and the dictates of chivalry, being thoroughly indignant at the unjust treatment accorded to his friend, Madame Guyon. His grief at the rupture of the bond between him and Bossuet was deep and sincere. He wrote, “God alone knows what pain it is to me to give pain to one for whom, in all the world, I have the most attachment and respect.” He wrote this even when he was defending himself from the most virulent attacks; and he would not have called God to witness to a profession that was not absolutely true. By his candor and simplicity, his openness and gentleness, the beauty of his genius, and the reputation of his virtue, he commanded the widest possible respect from all who were capable of appreciating these things. His challenge to his maligners rang out without ambiguity: “I fear nothing, thank God, that will be communicated and examined judicially. I fear nothing but vague report and unexamined allegation.”

FÉnelon, when the decision at Rome was communicated to him, acted as his friends had expected, although some of them had hardly dared hope that even he could rise so magnificently to the occasion. He accepted, simply, sincerely, sweetly, with no reservation or concealment or half-heartedness, what he regarded as, under the circumstances, the voice of God. His brother, the Compte de FÉnelon, heard the tidings first in Paris, and started instantly for Cambrai, thinking that the reception of the news through a kindly channel might at least lighten somewhat the blow. He arrived on the Festival of the Annunciation, just as the archbishop was about to preach in the cathedral. However keenly he felt the blow—and he was, of course, human—he was not disconcerted, or cast down, or perplexed. Pausing a little to arrange his thoughts, he threw aside his intended sermon, and preached on the duty of absolute submission to authority. The congregation, among whom the news was already whispered, was most profoundly impressed with the calm dignity, the noble simplicity of their beloved chief pastor; and the eyes of most overflowed with tears of admiration, affection, grief, and respect as they listened to his heartfelt words.

He was not a little harassed, as the days went on, by some zealous, well-meaning folk, who feared that he might not do the best thing, and wrote him long exhortations to submit, telling him of the glory he would find in such humiliation and the heroism he would achieve. He wrote to Beauvilliers: “All this wearies me somewhat; and I am disposed to say to myself, What have I done to all these people that they think I shall find it so difficult to prefer the authority of the Holy See to my own dim knowledge, or the peace of the Church to my own book? However, I am well aware they are right in attributing large imperfections to me and much shrinking from an act of humiliation; therefore I can easily forgive them.” He wrote: “Doubtless it costs one something to humble one’s self; but the least resistance to the Holy See would cost me a hundred-fold more, and I must confess that I can see no room for hesitation in the matter. One may suffer, but one can not have a moment’s doubt.” He also said: “Amid these troubles I have the comfort, little appreciated by the world, but very satisfactory to those who seek God heartily, namely, that my course is clear, and I have nothing to hesitate about.”

His enemies sought in vain to find a flaw in his submission. One of his followers wrote: “Your conduct is a living exemplification of the maxims of the saints;” as indeed it was. The dignified humility with which he met misfortune gave him added reputation. He sent out a pastoral letter, short and affecting, which comforted his friends and afflicted his enemies, falsifying every prediction which they had made of the nice subtleties and distinctions with which he would seek to disguise his defeat. His letters at this time breathed in all cases the most amiable spirit of peace and resignation. But in general he declined all writing and discourse on the subject, and at an early moment dismissed the controversy as far as possible from his thoughts. The Bishop of Chartres wrote to FÉnelon that he was delighted with his perfect submission: “I have no words to express how my heart is affected with your humble and generous action.” The pope wrote most kindly, and all the cardinals, except Cassanata, sent messages to FÉnelon by the AbbÉ de Chanterac, conveying their respect and attachment. “It is impossible,” wrote the abbÉ, “to praise more than they did your submission, your pastoral letter, your letters to the pope, and the whole of your conduct.” As one eminent person wrote from Rome, “He was more glorious than if he had never been condemned.” The Chancellor d’Aguesseau writes that FÉnelon’s submission made him the hero of the day. “It stands the solitary example in history of a controversy upon a point of such moment which one single sentence terminated at the instant, without its reproduction in any other form, without any attempt to reverse it by power or elude it by distinctions. The glory of it is due to FÉnelon, who was able to see that a very great desire to justify one’s self often does more harm than good, and that the surest way to obliterate wrongs unjustly imputed is to let them be forgotten and die out in silence.”

FÉnelon said, “In all this, so far from referring it to my opponents, I see no human agent; I see God only, and I am content to accept what He does.” “In the name of God,” he writes to a friend, “speak to me only of God, and leave men to judge of me as they like. As for me, I shall seek only peace and silence.” He had no resentment toward any one; but he steadily refused, with proper dignity and uncompromising adherence to the right, to utter one syllable which could be perverted into a semblance of retraction. He said that since the head of the Church, with its superior light and authority, had so judged, he must believe himself to have insufficiently explained his meaning, but he declared, in justice to himself, that he never understood the text, or supposed any one else could understand it, save in the sole sense which he had himself assigned to it. While ready at all times to meet his opponents in the humblest and most peaceful spirit, as he declared, he declined to enter into any negotiations that would imply a yielding of what concerned his conscience or his sense of truth in order to win them. He ceased to write and converse upon the subject from this time. But in the discharge of his duties among his own people and in his correspondence, he never ceased to inculcate the doctrine of pure love. He thought it his duty to avoid certain forms of expression, and certain illustrations which had been specifically condemned in the Papal Decree, and which were liable to be misconceived, but he went no further. How could he? Nor do we find that room to wonder, which some have done, at the heartiness and promptness of his submission to what he doubtless felt was, from a human point of view, unjust. He refused to confine himself to the human point of view. He held, with General Charles George Gordon, and many others in our own day, that, however we may rightly struggle to alter events while they are in the process of formation, when once they have come to pass they register a decree of the Almighty, and any reluctance to receive them is rebellion against Him, something not to be thought of by a truly loyal heart. This theory and practice made earth to him very heavenly, and life a triumphant march.