But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion that doubts from the habit of doubting of virtue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue commended by our Lord in his charge to his apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he may have had he conquered. His course was ever onward to the mark whither he deemed himself called of God.
We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences of the great whom rudeness would offend and inelegance disgust. Recent discoveries have given ample proof of his unflinching boldness to the French Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., which was not discovered until 1825, and which the most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intrepid words, Christian heroism cannot further go.
Would that there were time to speak of his works in their various departments, especially those in the departments of education, social morals, and religion.
No name stands above his among the leaders in the great cause of education. None surpass him in the power with which he defended the mind of woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems prevalent in his day, and by his example and pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and blend grace with utility. None went before him in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boyhood into tenderness, and with all modern improvements our best teachers may find in his works a mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks of instruction and discipline.
In social morals he was a great reformer; not, indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed with some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant need of applying Christian truth and duty to every social institution. He rebuked the passion for war, by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of combatants, and by his instructions struck at the root of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more emphatically than ever that we are to look for this not to the hack-politicians who think only of the cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who interpret the future from the high ground of reason and right. His political papers embody the lessons that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's various advice to the royal youth under his charge. Well may the better minds of France and Christendom honor his name for the noble liberality with which he qualified the mild conservatism so congenial with his temperament, creed and position.
As a theologian, he constantly breathes one engrossing sentiment. With him, Christianity was the love of God and its morality was the love of the neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his piety might seem too ascetic and mystical—too urgent of penance and self-crucifixion—too enthusiastic in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason in the impassioned fervors of devotion—sometimes bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its just balance and sink to the earth and the empire of the senses. He has written some things that prudence, nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, qualified by other statements, and above all, interpreted by his own life, his religion appears in its true proportion—without gloom, without extravagance. To his honor be it spoken, that in an age when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that he had too little sympathy with the fears and passions of men, and appreciated too little the more sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of the grandest music of our humanity, and we must abate something of our admiration of him for his want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought and heroism. He evidently loved Virgil more than Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thought the Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect structure, alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe for the archbishop's surplice.
Viewing him now on the whole, considering at once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in a single saying. He worshipped God in the beauty of holiness. His whole being, with all its graces and powers so harmoniously combined, was an offering to God that men cannot but admire and the Most High will not despise.
We may not take leave of Fenelon without applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in occasion for controversial argument, we defer all strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in which we shall look upon his name. His remains were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar at which he had so often ministered. It would seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them from desecration. Eighty years passed and the Reign of Terror came upon France in retribution for her falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were marshalling their hosts against the new republic. Every means must be used to add to the public resources, and the decree went forth that even the tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The republican administrator of the District of Cambray, Bernard Cannonne, in company with a butcher and two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went down into the vault which held the ashes of so many prelates. The leaden coffins with their contents were carried away and placed upon the cars; but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsoldered and they could take away the coffin and leave the sacred dust it had contained. Years passed, and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts regarding the acts of desecration were legally ascertained and the bones of the good archbishop triumphantly reserved for a nobler than the ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in the preservation of them from violence. It was well that the bloody revolutionists who went to the tombs for metal to furnish their arsenals, were made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of one whose counsels of duty heeded would have averted that revolution by a system of timely concessions and benignant legislation.
Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place of this good man, let it not be to furnish material for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theological antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and encouragement it affords. A genius so rare we may not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more precious and imitable are associated with that genius and create its highest charm. Our time has been worse than thrown away, and our study of his works and his biographies has been in vain, if we are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle for the page of history, the illustration of divine providence that has now come before us. Placed in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his spirit.
Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we have not done with the church and its teachers. Many a time of late we have had cause to think with regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Archbishop of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had forgotten the purer example for the baser, and copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity? Nay, has not priestly assumption coveted the talons and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray? What government or ruler in Christendom would not be the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great Louis of France in words like these: