THOUGHTS UPON FENELON.
BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.
Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his antagonist, and shortly before the death of his royal patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience of Christendom has already judged between the two parties. Never was the spirit of the good archbishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, the heart of France has embalmed in its affections the name of his victim, and our common humanity has incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's remains were discovered in 1804, the French people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory was forthwith decreed by Napoleon. In 1826, his statue was erected in Cambray, and three years after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a selection from his works, exhibiting the leading features of his mind, bore witness of his power and goodness to this western world. The graceful monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of decay.
To any conversant with that little work, or with the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts? Yet something must be said to show the compass of his character, for common eulogium is too indiscriminate in praise, exaggerating certain amiable graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.
He was remarkable for the harmony of his various qualities. In his intellect, reason, understanding, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety of his writings and the careful and generous economy of his substance. He died without property and without debt. Some critics have denied him the praise of philosophical depth. They should rather say, that his love of prying analytically into the secret principles of things was counterbalanced by the desire to exhibit principles in practical combination, and by his preference of truth and virtue in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wisely with the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he could hold an even argument with the terrible Bossuet on the essence of Christianity. He preferred, however, to exhibit under forms far more winning than controversy, his views of human agency, divine power, and Christian love. The beautiful structure of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator has thrown around the human frame, not to disguise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and to ease and beautify its action. With this reservation, we will allow it to be said that his mind was more graceful than strong.
His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, or forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, had more than one occasion to recognize the singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured by prevalent standards, his character may be said to lack one element—fear. His life was love. The text that the beloved disciple drew from his Master's bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: "He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love."
His active powers were great, for he filled with efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for different orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere took something from his distinction by being rival of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all—allowing to other men superior excellence in single departments—where can we find a man on the whole so perfect as he was?
I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, and that the animadversions of his contemporary, St. Simon, have been more than repeated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian Michelet. True, that the courtesy that won the hearts alike of master and servant, the high-born lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited widow who asked his Christian counsel, has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that would win high honors by refusing to accept the less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes been called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser emotion has been hinted at as running through some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, that he has been called very politic and ambitious. We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we maintain that he was every inch a man.