of peace whereat Fenelon slaked his thirst
every night of his exile lay rather in his loyalty to Madame Guyon in
her misfortune, in his love for the slandered, persecuted Dauphin, than
in his expectation of eternal reward; rather in the irreproachable
human conscience within him, overflowing with fidelity and tenderness,
than in the hopes he cherished as a Christian.

97. Admirable indeed is the serenity of this "little flock!" No virtue,
here, to kindle dazzling fires on the mountain, but heart and soul that
are alive with flame. No heroism but that of love, of confidence and
sincerity, that remember and are content to wait. Some men there are
whose virtue issues from them with a noise of clanging gates; in others
it dwells as silent as the maid who never stirs from home, who sits
thoughtfully by the fireside, always ready to welcome those who enter
from the cold without. There is less need of heroic hours, perhaps, in
a beautiful life, than of weeks that are grave, and uniform, and pure.
It may be that the soul that is loyal and perfectly just is more
precious than the one that is tender or full of devotion It will enter
less wholly perhaps, and with less exaltation, into the more exuberant
adventures of life; but in the events that occur every day we can trust
it more fully, rely more completely upon it; and is there a man, after
all, no matter how strange and delirious and brilliant his life may
have been, who has not spent the great bulk of his time in the midst of
most ordinary incident? In our very sublimest hour, as we stand in the
midst of the dazzling circles it throws, are we not startled to find
that the habits and thoughts of our soberest hour are whirling around
with the rest? We must always come back to our normal life, that is
built on the solid earth and primitive rock. We are not called upon to
contest each day with dishonour, despair, or death; but it is
imperative, perhaps, that I should be able to tell myself, at every
hour of sadness, that there exists, somewhere, an unchangeable,
unconquerable soul that has drawn near to my soul--a soul that is
faithful and silent, blind to all that it deems not conformable with
the truth. We can only have praise for heroism, and for surpassingly
generous deeds; but more praise still--as it demands a more vigilant
strength--for the man who never allows an inferior thought to seduce
him; who leads a less glorious life, perhaps, but one of more uniform
worth. Let us