that he was dying, he wished to see again his
native land--as on the eve of a long journey, one goes to one's
mother to kiss her. Sometimes, in the presence of the dead--when the
dead are illustrious--one feels, with especial distinctness, the
heavenly destiny of that Intelligence which is called Man. It passes
over the Earth to suffer and be purified.

FENELON AND MADAME GUYON

Some time before the marriage of my daughter, I had become
acquainted with the Abbe Fenelon, and the family into which she had
entered being among his friends, I had the opportunity of seeing him
there many times. We had conversations on the subject of the inner
life, in which he offered many objections to me. I answered him with
my usual simplicity. He gave me opportunity to thoroughly explain to
him my experiences. The difficulties he offered, only served to make
clear to him the root of my sentiments; therefore no one has been
better able to understand them than he. This it is which, in the
sequel, has served for the foundation of the persecution raised
against him, as his answers to the Bishop of Meaux have made known
to all persons who have read them without prejudice.

--_Autobiography of Madame Guyon_

[Illustration: FENELON]

I have been reading the "Autobiography of Madame Guyon." All books that
live are autobiographies, for the reason that no writer is interesting
save as he writes about himself. All literature is a confession; there
is only one kind of ink, and it is red. Some say the autobiography of
Benjamin Franklin is the most interesting book written by an American.
It surely has one mark of greatness--indiscretion. It tells of things
inconsequential, irrelevant and absurd: for instance, the purchase of a
penny-loaf by a moon-faced youth with outgrown trousers, who walked up
Market Street, in the city of Philadelphia, munching his loaf, and who
saw a girl sitting in a doorway, laughing at him.

What has that to do with literature? Everything, for literature is a
human document, and the fact that he of the moon-face got even with the
girl who laughed at him by going back and marrying her gives us a
picture not soon forgotten.

Everybody is entertaining when he writes about himself, because he is
discussing a subject in which he is vitally interested--whether he
understands the theme is another thing. The fact