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