I do not mean to say that the truth should not be set forth with power and energy. God forbid! but it should be seasoned throughout with abundant charity. It is only those, indeed, who love much and are themselves beloved, who possess the prerogative of delivering severe truths in an effectual manner. The people pardon every thing in those to whom they are attached, and receive home, without recoiling, the sternest truths and reproofs addressed to them by a beloved preacher.
Let your preaching, then, be the effusion of a heart full of love and truth. Skilfully disconnect vices and errors from individuals. Place the latter apart, and then assail the former: be merciless, close up all loop-holes, allow no scope for the resistance of bad passions; tread the evil under foot. But raise up the vicious and erring, stretch out a hand to them, pour confidence and good-will into their souls, address them in language such as will make them hail their own defeat:—"Brethren, I speak to you as I love you, from the bottom of my heart." "Permit us to declare unto you the whole truth; suffer us to be apostles; suffer us to address you in words enlivened by charity; suffer us to save you. …"
Thus have we endeavored to describe the nature, the power, and the triumphs of apostolical preaching; which should be the same now as it was in olden time.
But apostolical eloquence is no longer well understood. It is now made to consist of I hardly know what: the utterance of truths without any order, in a happy-go-lucky fashion, extravagant self-excitement, bawling, and thumping on the pulpit. There is a tendency in this respect to follow the injunctions of an old divine of the sixteenth century to a young bachelor of arts:—"Percute cathedram fortiter; respice Crucifixum torvis oculis; nil diu ad propositnm, et bene prcedicabis."
It is evident that any thing so congenial to indolence cannot be apostolical eloquence, which consists of an admixture of truth, frankness, and charity. To be an apostle one must love, suffer, and be devoted.
For, what is an apostle? To use the language of one who was worthy to define the meaning of the word, and who exemplified the definition in his own life: [Footnote 8] "An apostle is fervent charity personified. … The apostle is eager for work, eager to endure. He yearns to wean his brethren from error, to enlighten, console, sustain, and to make them partakers of the happiness of Christianity. The apostle is a hero; he is a martyr; he is a divine, a father; he, is indomitable, yet humble; austere, yet pure; he is sympathizing, tender. … The apostle is grand, eloquent, sublime, holy. He entertains large views, and is assiduous in carrying them out for the regeneration and salvation of mankind."
[Footnote 8: Père Ravignan.]
We must return, then, to this broad and tender benevolence. Let our congregations feel it, read it; see it in our persons, in our features, in our words, in our minutest actions. Let them understand that the priest is, before all others, their best, their most faithful friend. Nothing must disconcert our charity. Our heart must be enlarged, and soar above the frail ties, the prejudices, and the vices of humanity. Did not Saint Paul say: "I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ," for the sake of his erring brethren? And did not Moses elect to be blotted out from the book of life rather than see his cowardly, ungrateful, fickle countrymen stricken by the hand of the Almighty? The weaker men are, the more need have they to be loved.
Such love does good to all. It cheers the heart of the preacher. It also creates sympathy, and those electric currents which go from the speaker to the hearts of the faithful, and from the hearts of the faithful back to the speaker. It reveals what should be said, and, above all, supplies the appropriate accent wherein to express it. Saint Augustine writes: "Love first, and then you may do what you choose." We may subjoin: "Love first, and then you may say what you please;" for affectionate speech fortifies the mind, removes obstacles, disposes to self-sacrifice, makes the unwilling willing, and elevates the character as well as the mind.
Charity is the great desideratum of the present time. It is constantly being remarked that the age in which we live requires this and that. What the age really wants is this:—It needs to be loved. … It needs to be drawn out of that egotism which frets and consumes it. It needs a little esteem and kindly treatment to make good all its deficiencies. How silly we are, then, to go so far in search of the desired object, overlooking the fact thatthe kingdom of God is within us—in our hearts.
Be it ours, therefore, to love the people. … Is it not to that end that we have no family ties? … Let us prevent their hate, which is so harmful to them. Let love be present with us always, according to the saying of Saint Augustine:—"Let us love in speaking, and speak in love. Let there be love in our remonstrances … love also in our reproofs. Let the mouth speak, but let the heart love." Yes, let us learn to love, to endure, to be devoted. What! do we not belong to the same family as those excellent and self-denying men who leave country and home to seek and to save souls beyond the ocean? Were we not brought up at the same school? They love infidels, they love pagans and savages sufficiently well to sacrifice every thing for them. … Are not our pagans in France worth as much as the pagans of Oceania? Are not our French little ones as deserving of compassion as Chinese children?True, their parents do not expose them on the highways; but they abandon them to shame, to vice, to the education of the streets. … It is right that we should commiserate the heathen, that devotion should be manifested on their behalf; but let us have compassion on our own children also, on our brothers in France, that they be not suffered to perish before our eyes. … Yes, I invoke pity for this people; pity for their sufferings, their miseries, their prejudices, their deplorable subjection to popular opinion, their ignorance, their errors. Let us, at least, try to do them good, to save them. Therein lies bur happiness; we shall never have any other. All other sources are closed to us; there is the well-spring of the most delectable joys. Apart from charity, what remains? Vanity, unprofitableness, bitterness, misery, nothingness.
The actual State of the People.Their good and bad Qualities.The People in large Cities.The People in small Towns.The People in rural Districts.How to benefit these Three Classes of People.One powerful Means is to act upon the People through the upper Classes, and upon the latter through the former.
We shall now assume that you love the people. But, besides that, in order to address them pertinently, you must understand them well, know their good qualities, their failings, instincts, passions, prejudices, and their way of looking at things; in a word, you must know them by heart. To a profound acquaintance with religion must be joined a profound knowledge of humanity as it exists at the present day. But, to speak frankly, the people are not known; not even by the most keen-sighted, not even by our statesmen. They are only studied superficially, in books, in romances, in the newspapers, or else they are not studied at all.Judgment is mostly formed from appearances. One sees a man mad with rage, who insults, blasphemes, or who staggers through the streets, and he says: "There; behold the people!" Another sees one who risks his own life to save a fellow-creature, or who finds and restores a purse or a pocket-book to its owner, and he exclaims exultingly, "Behold the people!" Both are mistaken, for both substitute an exception for the rule.
In order to understand the people well, we must probe beyond the surface, and take them as they are when they are most themselves. They must be studied in the spirit, as it were, and not on the outside; for they often appear worse than they actually are. Still less should we arrest our researches, as is frequently done, at a point where they clash against ourselves. On the other hand, I feel bound to state that if we do not know the people, they, in turn, do not know the classes of society above them; and it is on that account that we do not love each other as we ought.
At first sight, the French people—the lower orders—are a real mystery: an inconceivable medley of weakness and of courage, of goodness and ill-will, of delicacy and rudeness, of generosity and egotism, of seriousness and of frivolity. It may be said that they possess two natures: one endowed with good sense, which is generous, feeling, and contrite; the other unreflecting, which raves and drinks, curses and swears. On one side they are frivolous, vain, weak, scornful, sceptical, credulous, headstrong.
In their frivolity they jeer at every thing; at what is frivolous and what is serious, at what is profane and what is sacred. Their weakness under temptation is lamentable: they have no restraint over themselves. But, above all, their credulity is unbounded. This is their weak, their bad side; the source of one portion of our evils.
Alas! what may not this people be led to believe? There is no lie so great, no absurdity so gross, the half of which they may not be made to swallow when their passions dictate that any thing may be gained thereby, or they conceive that their interests are assailed. At certain seasons of blind infatuation they may be made to believe any thing; even that which is incredible, even what is impossible. Unfortunately this is to some extent the case among the higher classes. The people surrender themselves to the first comer who has a glib tongue and can lie adroitly.
Their credulity, as already stated, knows no bounds; especially as respects the rich and the clergy, whom they regard as the cause of all the ills which befall them. Accidents wholly independent of human volition are placed to their account. Is there a dearth? They create the scarcity of corn. Is there stagnation in trade? They restrain the capitalists. Undoubtedly they had some hand in the cholera; and it is not quite certain but that there exists some damnable connivance between them and the caterpillars and weevils. … Poor people! yet how they are deceived! Thereupon their good sense disappears, their heads reel, reflection abandons them, and then they rise up in anger: strike, pillage, kill. … They become terrible.
But I hasten to say that if there is evil in the French people, there is also good: much good. They are witty, frank, logical, generous, amiable, and above all,they have hearts. This is undeniable; and we should never despair of a man who has a heart, for there is always something in him to fall back upon. When all else is lost to this people, their heart survives, for it is the last thing which dies within them.
It has been said that frivolity is the basis of the French character; but that judgment is incorrect. More truly it should be said that the French character is frivolous outwardly, but at the bottom it is generous, combined with exquisite good sense.
Very few are aware how much generosity and sympathy toward all suffering are hid under the jerkin and smock-frock. The people possess an inexhaustible store of sentiment, of the spirit of self-sacrifice and devotedness. Why, then, are they not better understood? The mischievous, indeed, know them too well; for when they would mislead or stir them up, they appeal to their sense of justice, to their love of humanity. They point out to them grievances which should be redressed, oppressions to be avenged.Then are their passions lit up, and they are carried away … we need not tell the rest. The motive on their part was almost always praiseworthy at the outset, in some measure at least; but once led beyond themselves they hurried headlong into extremes.
The heart, then, is the better side of the French people; their honorable and glorious side; their genius. Others may claim the genius of extensive speculations in science and industry; to them belongs the genius of heart, of love, of sympathy, of charity. Endowed with so goodly a portion, what have they to complain of; for is not dominion over mankind achieved thereby? Hence, when Providence designs to spread an idea throughout the world, it implants it in a Frenchman's breast. There it is quickly elaborated; and then that heart so magnanimous and communicative, so fascinating and attractive, gives it currency with electric speed.
If noble aspirations spring from the heart, they nowhere find a more fertile soil; and, strange to say, this excellent gift is found in all classes, and under all conditions. A man may be worse than a nonentity in a moral point of view, but he has a heart still. Would you do him good? aim at that.
But you will say: "Look at those coarse fellows, those besotted clowns sunk in materialism, those men stained with crime and degraded by debauchery, where is their heart? They have none." I say they have a heart still: go direct to the soul, pierce through that rough and forbidding crust of vices and evil passions, and you will find a treasure.
Proof in point is to be met with everywhere; even in the theatres, where its manifestation has been noticed by observant spectators. The galleries are generally occupied by persons of all conditions; mechanics, profligates, vagabonds, loose women, and even men, who, to use their own indulgent expression,have had a weakness: that is, have spent some years in prison, or at the treadmill. It is gratifying to witness the conduct of that mass during the performance of some touching scene or generous action. They are often moved even to tears—they applaud and stamp with enthusiasm. On the contrary, when mean or heinous actions are represented, they can not hoot or execrate enough: they shake the fist at the scoundrel or traitor, hurl abuse at him, and not unfrequently more substantial missiles.
It will be said that all this feeling is transitory. So it may be; still it shows that there remain in such breasts, chords which may be made to vibrate, hearts not yet dead, good sentiments which are capable of cultivation.
Such are the French people taken in the mass; such their merits and defects. The head is not their better part, and they might almost be described as having a good heart but a bad head.In order to lead them, they must be seized where they present the best hold. To do this effectually requires sound sense and a kindly heart, moderate reasoning, and very little metaphysics. An opposite course, however, is too frequently pursued. Crotchets, fancies, theories, vapid ideas—such is the stuff wherewith attempts have been made to influence them. Is it surprising that they have not always yielded to such guidance?
On points of wit, argument, and right, the Frenchman is acute, punctilious, headstrong. On points of generosity and devotedness he is tractable, liberal, admirable. Demand any thing from him as a right, and he will refuse it. Ask the same thing of him, appealing to his heart, and he will often grant it with the best possible grace. But, above all, if you wish to restore him to equanimity and a right mind, get him to perform an act of charity.
To prove that the heart rarely disappears, and that it always retains a hold on the mind, I must be permitted to cite an example combining the good and the bad qualities which are to be met with in the lower grades of society. I shall frequently refer to facts; for in morals, as in many other matters, they bring us sooner to the point aimed at.
It was in one of the most wretched quarters of Paris that a priest went to visit a rag-woman who was dangerously ill. She was lying on straw so damp that it was fit only for the dung-hill. The visitor had reached the landing-place, and was reflecting how he might best minister to the poor woman's wants, when he heard the cry of another female from the end of a dark corridor, exclaiming: "Help! murder!"
He ran toward the spot, and pushing open a door saw two young children crying. Extended on the floor lay the unfortunate woman, while a tall man with a sinister countenance, and clad only in a pair of pantaloons and a ragged shirt, stood over her, kicking her. Her face was already black and blue from his violence.
The priest sprang towards the man and said: "Wretch! what are you about? Will you not desist?" He did desist, but it was to attack the speaker. He seized him suddenly by the breast, thrust two fingers under his cassock, and then, without uttering a word, lifted him as if he had been an infant, and carried him to an open window. There he angrily told him that he would not have priests intermeddling with his affairs, anddisturbing the peace of his household, and that he intended to pitch him out of the window forthwith. In fact, he was preparing to put the threat into execution; but, as if wishing to gloat over his victim, he continued to glare at him with the eyes of a tiger, holding him all the while as with an arm of steel.
The priest was alarmed, but God enabled him not to betray it. He regarded his antagonist calmly, and said almost with a smile: "Gently, my friend; you are much too hasty. Do you really mean to throw me out of the window? Is that the most pressing business on hand? You who are always talking about fraternity and charity; do you know what was taking place while you were beating your wife? Another woman was dying on a dung-heap in your house. I am sure you would be horrified at such a thing. Now, let us both see what we can do on her behalf; for you are by no means such a bad fellow as you wish to appear. I will pay for some clean straw, if you will go and fetch it." Terror, combined with the desire of winning over his assailant, made the priest eloquent, and he had hardly ended his appeal before the lion was tamed. The man's countenance rapidly changed, and he relaxed his hold at once; then taking off his shabby cap and placing it under his arm, he assumed a respectful attitude, like that of a soldier in presence of a superior officer, and replied:—"If you talk in that style, sir, the case is different. I have always been humane, and will readily help you to assist the poor woman. I will, in fact, do any thing you please; for it won't do to let a fellow-creature die in that plight." Thereupon the priest gave him the money, and he went out to purchase two bundles of clean straw.
In the mean time the women of the neighborhood, attracted by the altercation, had rushed to the spot, and on seeing the priest expostulated with him in these terms:—"What are you about? Do you know where you are? You are in the clutches of the worst man in the quarter. He is so outrageous that even cut-throats are afraid of him, and he has often said that nothing would give him more pleasure than to break a man's neck, especially if that man were a priest." These remonstrances were by no means encouraging; but those who urged them little knew the power of charity.
The sturdy fellow soon returned with the bundles on his shoulder. He was calm, and his countenance had become almost honest. On entering the room where the poor woman lay, he took half a bundle of straw and spread it on the floor. The most touching part of the scene followed. He lifted the sufferer in his arms with the tenderness of a mother, placed her on the clean straw, then made her bed, and finally laid her upon it, just as a mother would her child. A female wished to help him, but he pushed her aside, remarking that he was well able to do a humane act unassisted.
The man was in tears, and the priest perceiving that he wished to address him, retired toward the window. But his new acquaintance could not utter a word; emotion choked him. The priest gave him his hand, and the stalwart workman squeezed it as in a vice, in token of his affection."Well done, my friend," said the priest, "well done; I quite understand you. I knew full well that you were not as bad as you wanted to make me believe. I knew you were capable of doing a good action." "You have done it all," was the reply; "four men could not master me, and yet you have overcome me with as many words.You must be a true pastor."
The priest hastened to turn this favorable opportunity to profit, by pleading the cause of the wife, and rejoined:—"But, my friend, you have done something which is not becoming. You have ill-used your wife; and a man does not marry a woman to beat her. I have no doubt she has her failings, and you also have yours. You should bear with one another. Come, promise me that you will never strike her again." At these words, his face assumed somewhat of its former sullenness, and dropping the priest's hand he said frankly:—"I am very sorry that I cannot do as you wish. I will not promise because I should not keep my word." … The priest returned to the charge, and among other remarks which made some impression on the man, he was quite brought to bay by the following:—"So you won't promise not to beat your wife? That is simply because you don't reflect. Surely, you who have just done an act of kindness to a strange woman, cannot, with any decency, continue to beat your own wife."After much hesitation, he pledged his word, backing it with a tremendous oath. Since then, he has never been intoxicated, neither has he once struck his wife. You should have seen with what gratitude the woman welcomed her preserver on his next visit. "What a blessing my acquaintance with you has proved," said she. "Since your last visit you have saved me from twofloorers. My husband does not drink now, but he still goes into violent passions. He raises his fist, and I fear he is about to strike me; but he forbears. He calms down at once, and says: 'Tis well for you that that abbé came, otherwise I would have floored you again."
Not long after, he was reclaimed to a Christian life; he confessed and communicated, and it is now rare to find a man of more exalted sentiments. He refused assistance from every one, saying that he was able to earn his own livelihood, and to provide for his family. To do this, he worked all day and part of the night also. Peace and comfort were restored to his home, which his wife now likens to a paradise.
To give an instance of his noble disposition, I may mention that toward the end of last December he called on the priest, to whom he had become greatly attached, and said to him with his characteristic frankness:—"I am very sad to-day, Monsieur l'Abbé."
"Why, my friend?"
"Because I am poor. In the course of my lifetime I have suffered misery enough. I have cursed the rich, and that Providence which gave them their wealth. Nevertheless, I don't believe I ever felt the wretchedness of being poor as much as I do to-day; although it is for a different reason."
"What is it, then, my good friend?"
"Well, it is this. Here we are close upon the beginning of a new year, and I wished to make you a small present—for you have been very kind to me and I have no money. However, be assured of this, at least, that you have in me a devoted friend, and that I am always at your service. Send me wherever you please; I would walk barefoot and beat a steam-engine to serve you." Then, taking the priest's hand, he added with unspeakable kindness and energy:—"Monsieur l'Abbé, should there ever be another revolution, and any assault be made on the clergy, come and take refuge with me; come and hide in our quarter, and I vow that many heads shall be broken before a hair of yours is touched."
Such are the people, taken as they are with the good and the bad which is in them. I have again selected my illustrations from among the least favorable specimens, and I may further add that it rarely happens that a priest meets even with abuse from the most depraved. The instance above adduced is exceptional, and arose out of the anger of the moment.
Such, then, are the people generally; but their characteristics are modified by circumstances of locality, intercourse, and education. There are the people of the large cities, those of small towns, and the people in rural districts. There are also the people who work, and those who are always looking for work and never find it; with whom the true people are often confounded.
The people in large cities possess, in a high degree, all the merits and defects which we are about to notice.
They are fickle, vain, braggart, improvident, mad after pleasures, and not very moral.
The ease with which they may be duped is astounding. They are readily excited, they clamor, are carried away, strike for nothing whatever, and then they reflect. They live from hand to mouth. When work is plentiful, they squander; when it is scarce, they fast and suffer.
They love money for the pleasures which it procures; and in their estimation a debauch is one of the greatest enjoyments of life.
This latter tendency they have borrowed from the present age; which is somewhat sensual, not to say gluttonous—that term would not be parliamentary—as it would have been called in former times. Nowadays a good dinner is not a matter of indifference to others besides men of high standing. A person of exalted rank was once told that his cook had the talent of adding considerably to his own wages. "I know it," was the reply; "but I hold that we cannot pay a man too handsomely for making us happy twice a day." In fact, in these times, one who can thus serve you out two rations of happinessper diemis regarded as a treasure.
Despite the vices, however, which exist in large cities, there are many virtues also to be found among the resident people. They are sincere, generous, disinterested, amiable, and withal extremely witty. In the midst of their hardships, or when exposed to danger, they will often utter sparkling sallies, or laugh good-naturedly at their miseries. They are not rich; but what matters that? They are ever ready to help those who are poorer than themselves. In case of an accident, they will run, work, expose themselves to save others at the risk of their own lives. They are ready to sacrifice themselves for whatever they deem just and right. Unfortunately, in their opinion, the authorities are always in the wrong, and they are never backward to take part against the law.
The more I study the people, the more incomprehensible they appear to me. They are at once sceptical and religious. Watch them in a public-house there they curse and swear, and indulge freely in ribald talk; but if a funeral happens to pass by, they immediately doff their caps, and make the sign of the cross. To-day they will thrash one of their comrades unmercifully; the day after they will adopt an orphan. No class ever had so much need of guidance; of benevolent sympathizing guidance. They drift with the wind under the influence of good or evil counsels. They may become sublime or atrocious, angels of heaven or demons.
The people themselves feel their own weakness and fickleness, and are occasionally dismayed at it. Some time back, one of them, while looking at the stains of blood which had been shed in a church in the month of September, 1792, was seized with a sudden horror, and, laying hold of the arm of the priest who accompanied him, exclaimed with a shudder:—"I fear those times may return; for, you see, we are unfortunate. We are ill-advised, and are as ready to kill with one hand as we are to embrace with the other."
They require, then, to be under constant guidance They always need to have some one near who will sustain and keep them in the right way by appealing to the better dictates of their hearts.
In one respect, such guidance is easier here than elsewhere. You tread on ground which is perfectly well-known. These people can hide nothing. As the saying is, when an idea tickles them, they must scratch it until it finds utterance. Their frankness is occasionally foul-mouthed, and they do not hesitate to blurt it out to your face. Nevertheless, such a style rather pleases me than otherwise. You know, at least, with whom you have to deal; and when such an one says that he is attached to you, he is sincere. God grant that the feeling in every case may be abiding!
They are not tenacious either of their errors, their prejudices, or their passions. It is true that they are disposed to assume airs, to repine, and to threaten. They declare that they will do this and that; but it is by no means difficult to prevent them from doing it at all. Ridicule their prejudices and their foibles fairly, and with sound sense, and they will surrender them, and you will overcome them all. Moreover, they will not be the last to laugh at their own folly.
Some weeks after the revolution of February, when men's brains were all in a whirl, and every one fancied himself called upon to present us with a better world than that which Providence has given us, Monseigneur D'Amata, Bishop of Oceania, happened to be in Paris. One day he passed by a club in full session. The attendance was numerous, and all ears were bent and all eyes fixed on an orator who was dilating on the benefits of communism.He wound up with the usual phrases: No more poor nor rich; no more great nor small; no more palaces nor hovels; but perfect equality and happiness for all. After which peroration there was a tremendous outburst of applause.
The bishop then asked leave to speak, which being granted, he mounted on a table which served for a rostrum, and spoke to the following effect: "Citizens, you have just been hearing about communism, and a great deal of good has been attributed to it. I am entitled as much as any man to have my say on the subject. For a long time past I have resided in a country where communism is carried out into practice thoroughly." (Increased attention.) "There every thing is common: the land, the forests, rivers, fish, game, and women. But let me tell you how matters go on there. Nobody works; the fields are untilled; and the inhabitants live on fish and game. When these fail, as the people must eat, they hunt one another. The stronger catches the weaker, roasts him on a spit, and then eats him. Reflect, therefore, before establishing communism, whether such a state of existence would suit you. Should you persist, I would advise you to lay in a good supply of spits, and to sharpen them well, for they will be the most valuable stock under the reign of communism." Whereat there followed an outcry of "Down with communism! Away with communism!"
In small towns, the scene changes and assumes smaller proportions. Little things play the part of great things. A small town is the home, the real classical soil of petty ideas, petty vanities, petty triumphs, and gross backbiting. They all know, salute, and criticise each other. None is more slanderous than the male resident in a small town, except it be his wife. The chief authority of the place is neither the mayor, nor the sub-prefect, nor even the prefect himself. It is public opinion, flanked by its inseparable companion, routine.
The local virtue is not independence of character, but timidity. Every one fears his friends as well as his enemies, neighbors as well as strangers; he fears for his ownamour propre, and he fears to give others cause for talking about him.
All this has exercised a pernicious influence over the people in such localities. They are extremely timid, niggardly, insincere, rather hypocritical, and inordinately obsequious. They may be well-disposed to discharge their religious duties; but should there happen to be a free-thinker among them, one who takes the lead in the finance or trade of the place, who might traduce or turn such conduct into ridicule, or bespatter it with some of the blasphemies picked up from among the off-scourings of the eighteenth century, they do not dare to perform them; they tremble at the idea, so abject is their state of dependence: they have not even the courage to brave sarcasm.This servile deference, which has been ignominiously expelled from our great cities, has taken refuge in our small towns and country districts, where it exercises a tyrannical sway.
On the other hand, the people in small towns are more moral, more provident, less turbulent, and more faithful to family obligations than those in large cities. They, above all others, should not be judged by appearances: by that cold and lifeless indifference which characterizes them. Hence it is that they are so little understood, even by those who come into closest contact with them.
In order to win them, you must attack them boldly. Promote concurrence toward some benevolent object, by grouping your men together, so that they may not feel isolated. Then they will take courage, and will get to understand that it is no disgrace to practise religious duties; or, at least, that in attending to them, they are in fair and goodly company.
To that end, organize a society of St. Vincent de Paul; or, should one exist already, develop it still further. It is no longer allowable that a small town, or even a village, should be without a branch of that institution. The attempt has succeeded in many hamlets; and, surely, there is no inhabited locality so unfortunate as not to possess at least three zealous Christians.If so, they must be created forthwith; otherwise, what are we good for? Have also a Society of Saint Francis Xavier, and an Apprentices Association. Occupy yourself chiefly with the men; leave the faithful flock in order to seek after the lost sheep; and, above all, let it not be said of you as it is said of certain small towns, thatreligion there is engrossed with the distaff.
The people in the country are the reverse of the people in large cities. There, every thing moves slowly. Results are tardily obtained, but they are more durable.
The peasant is bound to routine; he is diffident, dissembling, susceptible, cunning, and somewhat avaricious.
Above all others, usage and custom are a law to him. He never risks any thing novel, or trusts to new faces, but with reserve. He possesses few ideas; but those he has he adheres to as tenaciously as he does to his little bit of land.
He seldom comes straight to the point; he is incapable of saying yes or no frankly, and he must be very acute who can penetrate his thoughts. He will listen to you, and appear to approve all you say; but in fact, he disagrees with you.He has, moreover his grain of vanity; why should he not? Is he not a child of Adam, like the rest of mankind? Has he not, like them, preserved the tradition of his noble origin?
Hence he is prouder of being mayor of hiscommune, or an officer in the National Guard, than either a prefect or a marshal of France is of his dignity. And as regards deference, no man is more exacting than a peasant who has risen to the rank mayor, or become an enriched shopkeeper.
Lastly, the peasant does not possess much acquired knowledge; but he makes up for the deficiency by consummate shrewdness. He must be a sharp person indeed, who can overreach him where money is concerned; unless he can manage to play upon his credulity or his dread of spells and witchcraft.
Nothing can be more perverse, more astute, or more cunning than an old peasant of Normandy or Lorraine. He will expend more craft in disposing of an unsound horse than our diplomats would in formulating one of those protocols destined to preserve the balance of power in Europe. He will haggle for half-an-hour to gain sixpence on a sheep which he wants to buy or to sell. In other respects, the peasant is generally good-natured, laborious, sober, full of good sense, and religious as well as moral, up to a certain point; were it not for the public house. His life is capable of easy adaptation to precepts of the Gospel.
In order to lead him, you must first secure his confidence, take hold of him by his better side, or even by his weak side—which is, his vanity. Ought we not to become little with the little, that we may save all?
But the best way of gaining that confidence is to do him a good turn. The peasant, undoubtedly, relishes kind words, but he likes kindly actions still better; and therein I agree with him.
In other respects, he is by no means exacting. A little forethought on his behalf, a little politeness, a salutation, a manifestation of interest, or a trifling present to his child, will be enough to open his heart, and to make him well-disposed.
When he is bent on doing a thing, never oppose him directly, otherwise he will become restive and obstinate; and if you attempt to lead him to the right, he will show a malicious pleasure in going to the left. Beware still more of pushing him to extremes; for he may become obstreperous, spiteful, pitiless, and perchance atrocious. Take the peasant by the heart; for, after all, it is the most healthy part of the community generally.
Such are the people, with whom we have to deal, and who need to be restored to vital Christianity; seeing that they are, unfortunately, sadly deficient in practical religion, and their manner of life is often far removed from evangelical morality. Still, let us beware of judging that the religious sentiment is extinct among them. The people in France are naturally Christian. There is more religion in the little finger of the people than in the superb bodies of ourdemi-savants.
The people, I say, are still capable of comprehending and of appreciating religion; and whenever their hearts are brought into contact with the Gospel, they allow themselves to be penetrated, ruled, elevated by its influence. Look at them in the presence of a preacher who speaks to the souls of his hearers. Their attention is suddenly riveted, their countenances become animated, their eyes glisten. They listen with an attention and good-will, which one often wishes to see in the most pious audiences. They welcome without a frown the severest truths, and even applaud those passages which bear most against themselves.
Those are, therefore, mistaken who think that religion has no longer any influence over the masses. It is true that at first, owing to the prejudices and sarcasms of a past age, the cassock is a scarecrow to certain classes.They begin by suspecting. But when the same persons come to know the priest well, when they are once won over by his address, there is no man in the world—neither tribune, nor popular orator, nor demagogue—who ever acquires so powerful a hold over them. It is on that very account that those who distrust the clergy express their apprehensions, and say:—"Their influence is excessive; their preaching should be interdicted; otherwise they may proceed to abuse it, and then we shall all be upset."
This ascendency is often obtained over the most stubborn and vicious. Condemned felons, despite their vices and their crimes, have been amazed to find themselves amenable to its power. Those who had been confided to the mission of Toulon, remarked:—"How strange it is that we who require armed soldiers to make us obey, nevertheless cheerfully do whatever the priests bid us!" And when the mission referred to terminated, no less than 2800 of the prisoners partook of the holy communion.
No, the people are not so much estranged from God and Christianity as is thought. We were made to understand each other; but evil passions have interposed between us and them. They still possess good sense and an inward instinct which draws them toward religion. They feel their need of it, because they feel the need of hope. Religion belongs preeminently to them; they are linked to it by their sympathies. Let us, moreover, do them this justice: they, the people, did not give up religious practices till long after the other classes.They held out for more than a century. Errors and scandals descended upon them from a sphere above them, yet they did not succumb. The churches were closed to them, their priests were driven away, even their God was hunted, yet they did not yield. They were pursued even into their cottages, their huts, and their workshops with licentious books and pamphlets, and they resisted still.
At length, religion was covered with ridicule, the mantle of derision was thrown over it, as it was over Christ, and they were bade in scorn to behold their religion! Then they gave way. … But the crash did not come till 1830, as the whole world can testify. The people were assailed on their weak side, with taunts and sneers which they were the least capable of withstanding.
But though deficient in evangelical morality, religious sentiment has still clung to them. As a pious and illustrious prelate, [Footnote 9] who knows the people well, who loves them, and is beloved in return, remarked to the Emperor, on his way to Moulins:—"I thank your Majesty for having understood that the French nation, left to its natural tendencies, preserves the character of the most Christian nation, and that, in spite of many rude shocks, the faith of their fathers is the first want of their hearts."
[Footnote 9: Monseigneur de Dreux-Brézé, Bishop of Moulins.]
A dignitary of religion is always venerated by the people. They run to see him and to solicit his benediction.
The visits of Monseigneur the late Archbishop of Paris to the faubourgs, tenanted by a population regarded as the most irreligious and immoral of the capital, may be adduced in illustration of this statement. Crowds of men and women flocked to him, bent under his paternal hand, and held up their squalid and half naked children to receive his blessing. In like manner, they brought him from all sides chaplets, images, and medals; while those who did not possess such pious articles brought halfpence, that he might bless them; and these they afterward preserved as sacred relics.
The same soothing influence followed the devout prelate in the streets, the workshops, and the public places. His words had a magic effect everywhere among those hardened and redoubtable denizens of the faubourgs.
It was in a quarter as poor in spiritual as in temporal things that an immense crowd thronged to him, and like the Good Shepherd—like the blessed Saviour—unwilling to send them away fasting, that is, without a few affectionate words, he mounted some steps, and stood on a landing, which served him for a pulpit. Among the crowd was a group of those men who are at perpetual war with society, keepers of smoking-dens, and worse places too; blacklegs, and setters-up of barricades. They looked at him without removing their caps, and with a sneer on their lips.