As will be inferred from these incidents his hospitality to those who came to him from all parts of Europe, as well as from near by, was unbounded. In spite of the urgency and multiplicity of his employments he was always ready, with the greatest kindness of feeling, to pay the utmost attention to all who had the slightest claim upon his time. He did not hesitate to drop his eloquent pen, with which he conversed with all Europe, whenever Providence called him to listen to the awkward utterances of the most ignorant and degraded among his people. His practice and his preference was to suffer any personal inconvenience, or sacrifice any private interest, rather than injure the feelings of a fellow-man or omit an opportunity of usefulness. Writing to a friend about his daily routine he says: “I must confer with the Chapter on a lawsuit; I must write and dispatch letters; I must examine accounts. How dreary would be life made up of these perplexities and details but for the will of God which glorifies all He has given us to do!” This is the keynote on which Fénelon toned and tuned his life at Cambrai, making himself the servant of all, ministering rather than being ministered unto, glorying in the honor of such services, fearful of the outward pomps the Church conferred upon him, yet accepting them in all simplicity because he fully believed the Church to be directed by his Master. “I have seen him,” says the Chevalier Ramsay, “in the course of a single day, converse with the great and speak their language, ever maintaining the episcopal dignity; afterwards discourse with the simple and the little, like a good father instructing his children. This sudden transition from one extreme to the other, was without affectation or effort, like one who, by the extensiveness of his genius, reaches to all the most opposite distances. I have often observed him at such conferences, and have as much admired the evangelical condescension by which he became all things to all men as the sublimity of his discourses. While he watched over his flock with a daily care, he prayed in the deep retirement of internal solitude. The many things which were generally admired in him were nothing in comparison of that divine life by which he walked with God like Enoch, and was unknown to men.” The Abbé Galet, another of Fénelon’s contemporaries, bears loud witness to the fact that, however grand the outside accommodations were, the archbishop’s personal appointments were of the most modest description. He says that “in the meager simplicity of his private living rooms, fitted up plainly in serge, of his dress—a long velvet cassock trimmed with scarlet, but without gold tassels or lace—even of his ecclesiastical vestments, Fénelon did homage to that idea of holy poverty whose actual practice was forbidden by his station in the world.”