them, insisting constantly upon the necessity of a real sanctification of the heart by the Holy Spirit. That she was one of the high saints of God, her soul a real temple of the Holy Ghost, can in no way be questioned. It is also certain that she had great intellectual power, and in the main taught most important and sacred truth. It is easy to find fault with many of her expressions, but her spirit is beyond praise. That she did on the whole a grand good work and will have a high place in glory, we are fully convinced. We come now to the great conflict between Bossuet and Fénelon. Up to this time they had been friends, at least outwardly. But there are grounds for believing that Fénelon’s growing and prospective influence aroused the envy of the ambitious Bossuet, who, no more than the king, was disposed to brook a rival; and the Quietist controversy speedily took on a character which brought the two bishops into the most direct antagonism. Bossuet completed, after long labor, early in 1696, an exceedingly able book against Quietism, entitled “Instructions on the States of Prayer.” He secured the approval of the other members of the Conference at Issy, and wished to append a favorable testimonial from Fénelon also. The latter examined the manuscript with care, and was obliged to withhold his indorsement. He did so on two grounds: He thought it contained an absolutely unqualified denial of the possibility of the pure, disinterested love of God; and he considered its censures of Madame Guyon too personal and too severe. He was perfectly aware that the refusal to comply with the wishes of Bossuet would be a mortal offense to that haughty, self-willed prelate, and would also displease the king, probably blasting his worldly prospects. But as a man of honor and of true Christian principle he could not and did not hesitate. Writing to M. Tronson at this time, he says, “Am I wrong in wishing not to believe evil sooner than can be helped, and in refusing to curry favor by acting against my conscience?” He declared that he would not attack “a poor woman who is trodden down by so many, and whose friend I have been,” for the sake of dispelling suspicion against himself; that he would not speak against his conscience or recklessly insult a person whom he had respected as a saint. “It would be infamous weakness in me,” he said, “to speak doubtfully in relation to her character in order to free myself from oppression.” Other extracts from his letters at this time, had we space to give them, would show conclusively the high ground he took, the only ground which his own character and self-respect, as well as his feeling of gratitude toward the persecuted woman, could possibly permit. Had he done otherwise, what would the world now think of him?