mbrai: Fenelon no
longer a counselor of kings--a tutor of royalty. His voice was silenced,
his pen chained. He was allowed to retire to a rural parish. There he
lived with the peasants--revered, beloved. The country where he dwelt was
battle-scarred and bleeding; the smoke of devastation still hung over it.
Not a family but had been robbed of its best. Death had stalked rampant.
Fenelon shared the poverty of the people, their lowliness, their sorrows.
All the tragedy of their life was his; he said to them, "I know, I know!"

Twelve years of Madame Guyon's life were spent in prison. Toward the last
she was allowed to live in nominal freedom. But despotism, with savage
leer and stealthy step, saw that Fenelon was kept far away. In those
declining days, when the shadows were lengthening toward the east, her
time and talents were given to teaching the simple rudiments of knowledge
to the peasantry, to alleviating their material wants and to ministering
to the sick. It was a forced retirement, and yet it was a retirement that
was in every way in accord with her desires. But in spite of the
persecution that followed her, and the obloquy heaped upon her name, and
the bribe of pardon if she would but recant, she never retracted nor
wavered in her inward or outward faith, even in the estimation of a hair.
The firm reticence as to the supreme secrets of her life, and her
steadfast loyalty to that which she honestly believed was truth, must ever
command the affectionate admiration of all those who prize integrity of
mind and purity of purpose, who hold fast to the divinity of love, and who
believe in the things unseen which are eternal.

* * * * *

The town of Montargis is one day's bicycle journey from Paris. As for the
road, though one be a wayfaring man and from the States he could not err
therein. You simply follow the Seine as if you were intent on discovering
its source, keeping to the beautiful highway that follows the winding
stream. And what a beautiful, clear, clean bit of water it is! In Paris,
your washerwoman takes your linen to the river, just as they did in the
days of Pharaoh, and the bundle comes back sweet as the breath of June.
Imagine the result of such recklessness in Chicago!

But as I rode out of Paris that bright May day it seemed Monday all along
the way; for dames with baskets balanced on their heads were making their
way to the waterside, followed by troops of barefoot or