[Transcriber's note: I dedicate this transcription to the Very Reverend Richard Trout of Corpus Christi Parish, Celebration, Florida. His gentle and moving homilies are perfect examples of the style and content recommended by this author. As the preface observes, the many references to nineteenth century France may not all apply to our times, but people and cultures are remarkably similar over time and distance.]
The Clergy And The Pulpit
In Their Relations To The People.
By M. L'Abbé Isidore Mullois,
Chaplain To The Emperor Napoleon III., And Missionary Apostolic.
Translated By
George Percy Badger,
Late Chaplain In The Diocese Of Bombay, Author Of "The Nestorians and Their Rituals," Etc.
First American Edition.
New-York:
The Catholic Publication Society,
Lawrence Kehoe, General Agent,
126 Nassau Street.
1867.
John A. Gray & Green, Printers,
16 and 18 Jacob Street, New-York.
Preface To The American Edition.
This excellent translation of the now celebrated work of the Abbé Mullois is presented to the American public with every assurance that it will meet with a most cordial welcome.
It is a live book; full of earnest words, fresh from the heart no less than from the head of the devout and zealous author. It has gained an unwonted popularity in France, where it has already passed through many editions. No less than twenty thousand copies are said to be in the hands of as many ecclesiastics.
We judge it to be one of the most timely books that could be offered to our own clergy, who will find much in these pages to encourage and stimulate them in their arduous pastoral duties. The sceptical spirit which pervades a large mass of the French people, hardly yet recovered from the fearful shock which their faith received in the Revolution, is one which, happily, we in America have not to contend with; and the suggestions of the author in reference to this are, of course, of no practical moment to us: but the principle that underlies every subject of which the author treats is a universal one, applicable at all times and to every nation: "To address men well, they must be loved much." This is the title of the first chapter, and the key to the whole work.
It is written in a pleasing, familiar style, with an unction that endues every sentence with an irresistible power of conviction and persuasion. Its perusal cannot fail of exerting a most healthful influence upon the character and tone of the discourses which the reader may be called upon by virtue of his office to deliver for the instruction and edification of the people committed to his spiritual care.
Author's Preface.
It is surprising that whereas, during the last three centuries, many books have been published on the mode of preaching to the higher classes, scarcely any thing has been written on the same subject with reference to the people, or lower orders. It seems to have been thought that the latter ought to be satisfied with the crumbs which might fall from the table provided for the educated portion of society.
Nevertheless, nothing could be more opposed to the spirit of the Gospel; which is specially addressed to the poor and humble—"He hath anointed Me to preach to the poor." The Fathers of the early Church did not consider it beneath their genius to write treatises on the manner of communicating religious instruction to the people. The people form nearly the whole of the population. In France, they number twenty-three out of a total of twenty-five millions; yet, strange to say, they are quite overlooked. The educated two millions appear to have assumed that they constitute France, and that France has so willed it. But if a few men were to arise capable of laying hold of the instincts of the multitude, were it only of one of the emotions which stir them, they would soon undeceive those who fancy that the people are under their guidance. We know something by experience on that score.
There is a prevailing conviction among the well-disposed that nothing but religion can save us; that France must either once more become Christian or perish. But in order that religion may exercise a beneficial influence over the masses, it must be brought into contact with them; and that can only be done by the preaching of the Word, agreeably with the inspired declaration:—"Faith cometh by hearing."
It is much more difficult than is imagined to preach to the common people, because they are so little conversant with spiritual things, and so much absorbed in what is material. It is more difficult to address them than the wealthier classes; for, in addressing the latter, one has only to fall in with the current of their ideas; whereas in preaching to the former, we have to bring high and sublime thoughts within the grasp of feeble intelligences. Besides, there exists among the masses a certain amount of knowledge more or less superficial, and none is more difficult to direct than a half-taught man.
The foregoing considerations have led us to indite this little treatise; wherein our object has been not to lay down any specific rules, but simply to set forth the teachings of experience. What we most need nowadays is a popular religious literature to meet the temper and wants of the people. Such a literature does not exist. It should be based entirely on the national character and on the precepts of the Gospel. Invested with those two qualities, it would become an irresistible agency for good, and would act as powerfully on the educated few as on the unlettered many. It might inaugurate the regeneration of our literature by restoring to it vitality, naturalness, and dignity. The time has come for taking up the cause of the people in earnest. The community generally is impressed with that conviction, and manifests a praiseworthy desire to encourage every effort for ameliorating their moral condition. Upward of one hundred thousand volumes specially designed for them are sold every year. Worldly-minded men, too, are anxious to foster the movement; finding that those who show a disposition to benefit the masses are sure to meet with countenance, sympathy, and even veneration. Moreover, we are at present in the enjoyment of profound calm. Heretofore, the apology for delay was:—"Let us wait to see the upshot of passing events; for who knows what may become of us; who knows but that we may be driven from our own homes?" The evil-disposed have had their day; let us see what honest folk may and can do.
Let us mutually co-operate, piously and charitably, to become once more a united people and country—a France with one heart and one soul. 'Twill be the beginning of blessedness.
Contents.
Preface To The American Edition, … [Page 5]
Preface By The Author, … [Page 7]
Chapter I. … [Page 15]
To Address Men Well, They Must Be Loved Much.
The Gospel enjoins universal Benevolence.
The Men of the present Age have a special Claim to our Love.
The success of Preaching depends upon our loving them.
Wherein true Apostolical Eloquence consists.
Chapter II. … [Page 40]
The People.
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 the People.
One powerful Means is to act upon the People through the upper Classes, and upon the latter through the former.
Chapter III. … [Page 118]
The Order Of A Sermon.
The Exordium.
Divisions.
Proofs.
Are there many Unbelievers in France?
Manner of refuting Objections.
Chapter IV. … [Page 136]
The Sermon Should Be Popular.
What constitutes true Popularity?
Popularity in Words, in Thought, in Sentiment.
One of the most popular Sentiments in France is Patriotism.
Means to utilize that Sentiment.
The Relationship between Popularity and Genius.
Demosthenes.
Saint John Chrysostom.
Daniel O'Connell.
Chapter V. … [Page 160]
The Sermon Should Be Plain.
An obscure Sermon is neither Christian nor French.
Abuse of philosophical Terms.
Philosophical Speculations not popular amongst us.
The French mind is clear and logical.
Plainness of Speech.
Plainness of Thought.
Starting from the Known to the Unknown.
Metaphors.
Similes.
Parables.
Facts.
Père Lejeune.
M. l'Abbé Ledreuil.
Chapter VI. … [Page 183]
The Sermon Should Be Short.
The Discourses of the Fathers were short.
The French Mind is quick to apprehend.
Sermons are generally too long.
Sermons of Ten, Seven, and of Five Minutes.
Chapter VII. … [Page 197]
Tact And Kindliness.
We should assume that our Hearers are what we wish them to be.
Reproaches to be avoided.
How to address Unbelievers.
Special Precautions to be taken in small Towns and Rural Districts.
How to treat Men during times of public Commotion.
Forbearance due to the Church for being obliged to receive Money from the Faithful.
Chapter VIII. … [Page 222]
Interest. Emotion, and Animation.
We should endeavor to excite Interest by Thoughts, by Sallies or Epigrams, by Studies of Men and Manners.
The Truth should be animated.
The Père Ravignan.
The Père Lacordaire.
The Heart is too often absent.
Chapter IX. … [Page 243]
The Power And Accent Of Conviction.
The Divine Word has always been the first Power in the World.
The Gospel still the first of Books.
There can be no Christian Eloquence without the Accent of personal Conviction.
Chapter X. … [Page 254]
Action.
Action should be:
first, true and natural;
secondly, concentrated;
thirdly, edifying
It should be cultivated.
How cultivated by the Society of Jesus Suggestions.
Chapter XI. … [Page 275]
Study.
Study a Duty
The State of the World calls for Knowledge on the part of the Clergy.
Knowledge has always been one of the Glories of Religion.
All the eminent Men in the Church were Men of Study.
Reasons adduced for not studying, answered:
Want of Leisure,
Natural Aptitude,
The Plea of having already studied sufficiently;
That one is fully equal to the Requirements of the People committed to his Charge.
Chapter XII. … [Page 287]
Zeal.
The Excellency of Zeal.
Love for the Body should be coupled with Love for the Soul.
The Zeal of the Wicked.
How Zeal should be exercised.
Associations:
of Apprentices,
of Operatives,
Conferences of Saint Vincent de Paul,
of Domestics,
of Clerks,
of the Young.
Circulation of good Books.
Happy Results of the same.
The Advantages and Difficulties of Opposition.
Great Occasions.
The Clergy And The Pulpit
In Their Relations To The People.
Chapter I.
To Address Men Well, They Must Be Loved Much.
The Gospel enjoins universal Benevolence.
The Men of the present Age have a special Claim to our Love.
The Success of Preaching depends upon our loving them.
Wherein true Apostolical Eloquence consists.
Many rules of eloquence have been set forth, but, strange to say, the first and most essential of all has been overlooked, namely, Charity. … To address men well, they must be loved much. Whatever they may be, be they ever so guilty, or indifferent, or ungrateful, or however deeply sunk in crime, before all and above all, they must be loved. Love is the sap of the Gospel, the secret of lively and effectual preaching, the magic power of eloquence. … The end of preaching is to reclaim the hearts of men to God, and nothing but love can find out the mysterious avenues which lead to the heart. We are always eloquent when we wish to save one whom we love; we are always listened to when we are loved. But when a hearer is not moved by love, instead of listening to the truth, he ransacks his mind for some thing wherewith to repel it: and in so doing human depravity is seldom at fault.
If, then, you do not feel a fervent love and profound pity for humanity—if in beholding its miseries and errors you do not experience the throbbings, the holy thrillings of Charity—be assured that the gift of Christian eloquence has been denied you. You will not win souls, neither will you ever gain influence over them, and you will never acquire that most excellent of earthly sovereignties—sovereignty over the hearts of men.
I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the tradition of this great evangelical charity has declined among us. I hasten to add, however, that this is the fault of the age, of its injustices and sarcasms. It has dealt so hardly with Christianity, and has been so ungrateful toward it, that our souls have become embittered, and our words have been sometimes cold and dry: like the mere words of a man and nothing more. But that bitterness is passing away.
Religion in France, at the present day, is in the condition of a mother who meets with indifference and abuse from her son. The first outburst of her heart is one of pain and repugnance; but soon the better part of her nature gains the ascendency, and she says within herself: "After all, it is true that he is wicked; it is also true that he fills me with grief, and is killing me with anguish; nevertheless, he is still my child, and I am still his mother. … I cannot help loving him, so great is his power over me. Let them say what they will, I still love him. … Would to God that he had a desire to return! Would that he might change! How readily would I pardon every thing and forget all! … How, then, can I enjoy a moment's happiness whilst knowing that he is wicked or wretched?" … This is what Religion and those who represent it have felt. We have been wounded; we have been made to suffer cruelly. Yes, men have been unjust and ungrateful: but these same are our brethren still, still our children. And can we be happy while we see them wicked and miserable? Have they not already suffered enough? …. The question is not to ascertain what they are worth, but to save them such as they are. Our age is a great prodigal son; let us help it to return to the paternal home. Now is the time to recall the admirable words of Fenelon:—"O ye pastors, put away from you all narrowness of heart. Enlarge, enlarge your compassion. You know nothing if you know merely how to command, to reprove, to correct, to expound the letter of the law. Be fathers, … yet that is not enough; be as mothers."
This large love for men, alike for the good and the evil, is the pervading spirit of the Gospel. It is the true spirit of Christianity. Its power was felt by our fathers in the sacred ministry, and it governed their lives.
Look at Saint Paul, that great missionary of the Catholic Church. A stream of love flows from his apostolic soul. He did not suffer himself to be disconcerted by the failings, the vices, or the crimes of men. His heart uplifts him above such considerations, and he overcomes human prejudices and errors by the power of his charity. Let us hear him:—"O ye Corinthians, our mouth is open unto you, our heart is enlarged. Ye are not straitened in us, but ye are straitened in your own bowels. … Be ye also enlarged. For though ye have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet have ye not many fathers: for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you. I seek not yours, but you, … and I will very gladly spend and be spent for you; though the more abundantly I love you, the less I be loved." And, again:— "Would to God ye could bear with me a little in my folly: and, indeed, bear with me. For I am jealous over you with godly jealousy. Wherefore? because I love you not? God knoweth." [Footnote 1]
[Footnote 1: 2 Cor. vi. 13. I Cor. iv. 15. 2 Cor. xii. 14, 15; xi. i, 2, 11.]
"I say the truth in Christ that I lie not," saith he to the Romans; "I have great heaviness, and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren." [Footnote 2]
[Footnote 2: Rom. ix. 2, 3.]
And addressing the Galatians, he says:—"Brethren, be as I am; for I am as ye are. Ye know how through infirmity of the flesh I preached the Gospel to you at first. And my temptation, which was in my flesh, ye despised not, nor rejected. Where is, then, the blessedness ye spake of? For I bear you record, that, if it had been possible, ye would have plucked out your own eyes, and have given them to me. Am I therefore become your enemy because I tell you the truth? … My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you." [Footnote 3]
[Footnote 3: Gal. iv. 12-16, 19.]
… And, again, writing to the Philippians:—"It is meet for me to think this of you all, because I have you in my heart. For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ. … Yea, and if I be offered upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy, and rejoice with you all." [Footnote 4]
[Footnote 4: Philip, i. 7, 8; ii. 17.]
Alas! in this our day we see around us the same men, the same frailties, the same passions. Let us aim at possessing the same apostolical heart.
In like manner Saint Chrysostom. … what love, what charity, what devotedness dwelt in the heart of that Christian orator! And as regards the people with whom he had to deal; what laxity, what vices, what baseness had he not to contend against! Nevertheless, his heart is inflamed with charity, his yearnings are kindled. Exclamations of pain, the plaintive accents of pity escape from him; and even when he grows angry, he entreats, he sues for pardon.
"I beseech you," said he to the faithful, "to receive me with affection when I come here; for I have the purest love for you. I feel that I love you with the tenderness of a father. If occasionally I reprove you rather sharply, it arises from the earnest desire which I have for your salvation. … If you reject my words, I shall not shake off the dust of my feet against you. Not that herein I would disobey the Saviour, but because the love which He has given me for you prevents my doing so. … But, and if you refuse to love us, at least love yourselves by renouncing that sad listlessness which possesses you. It will suffice for our consolation that we see you becoming better, and progressing in the ways of God. Hereby, also, will my affection appear still greater, that while having so much to youward, you shall have so little toward me. … We give you what we have received, and, in giving it, ask nothing but your love in return. If we are unworthy of it, love us notwithstanding, and perchance your charity may render us deserving."
"You love me and I love you," said he, addressing the believers, "and I would willingly give you my life, and not merely that small service which I render by preaching the Gospel unto you."
In consequence of sickness he had been obliged to go into the country. On his return he thus addressed his audience:—"You thought of me, then, during my absence. For my part, it was impossible for me to forget you. … Even when sleep closed my bodily eyes, the strength of your affection for me opened the eyes of my mind insomuch that while sleeping I often fancied that I was addressing you. … I have preferred to return with the remains of my ailment rather than by staying longer away to do any injury to your charity; for while I was in the country you were unremitting in the expression of your grief and condolence. This was the subject of all your letters; and I am not less grateful for your grief than for your praise, since one must be capable of loving in order to grieve as you have done. … Hence, as I am no longer ill, let us satisfy one an other; if, indeed, it be possible that we should be satisfied; for love is insatiable, and the continual enjoyment of it by those whom it endears only inflames it still more. This is what was felt by Saint Paul, that foster-child of Charity, when he said: 'Owe no man any thing but to love one another;' for that debt is always being paid, yet is never discharged." [Footnote 5]
[Footnote 5: Second Homily on Repentance.]
Also the following passage, which is quite to the purpose here: "You are to me in the place of father, mother, brothers and children. You are every thing to me, and no joy or sorrow can affect me in comparison with that which concerns you. Even though I may not have to answer for your souls, I should not be the less inconsolable were you to perish; just as a father is not consoled for the loss of his son, although he may have done all in his power to save him. That I may some day be found guilty, or that I may be justified before the awful tribunal, is not the most pressing object of my solicitude and of my fear; but that you may all, without exception, be saved, all made happy forever, that is enough: that is also necessary to my personal happiness, even if the divine justice should have to reprove me for not having discharged my ministry as I ought; although, in that respect, my conscience does not upbraid me. But what matters it by whom you are saved, provided that you are saved? And if any one is surprised to hear me speak in this manner, it is because he knows not what it is to be a father." [Footnote 6]
[Footnote 6: Homily iii. on the Acts.]
On the other hand, if men ever ought to be loved, if, above all, the heart of the Christian priest ought to be touched, moved even to tears with deep compassion for humanity, this is preëminently the time. Doubtless, humanity is deserving of blame, but it is also most worthy of pity. Who, indeed, can be bold enough to hate it? Let us rather grieve for it: grieve for the men of the world who are truly miserable. … What truths can they lay hold of to resist themselves, to fill the void in their souls, to control themselves under the trials of life? All have been assailed, shaken, denied, overturned. What are they to do in the midst of this conflict of affirmations and negations? Hardly has a powerful and divine truth been presented to them, than one of those so-called talented men has come forward to sully it by his gainsaying or scornful derision.
Above all, the rising generation calls for our pity, because it has so long been famished. The half of its sustenance has been withheld from it by the cruelty of the age.
But let us do it justice: youth appreciates sincerity and candor above every thing. It is straightforward, and hates nothing so much as duplicity and hypocrisy. Well, when a young man awakens into life, what does he see around him? Contradiction and inconsistency, a very Babel of tongues: a discordant, a hellish concert. One bawls out to him, "Reason!" another "Faith!" here some bid him "Suffer!" there others tell him to "Rejoice!" but soon all join in the chorus, "Money, my son, money!" What, we ask, is a youth of eighteen, with all his besetting passions, to do in the midst of confusion like this?
It were well if even the domestic hearth afforded an asylum from this turmoil; but, unhappily, it assumes there its most flagrant form in father and mother. There we find one building up, and the other destroying. The mother prays, the father is prayerless; the mother is a communicant, the father is not; the mother confesses, the father does not; the mother speaks well of religion, the father derides it. … What, we ask again, is a youth to do with his affections under circumstances like these? Reason tells him that if there is a truth, it must be the same for all; if there is a rule of morals, it should apply to all; that if there is a religion, it should be the religion of all. Next, he is tempted to believe that he is being made sport of, and that the words vice, truth, and virtue are nothing but bare words after all. Such is the aspect of things presented to the rising generation; and were it not that there is something naturally good and generous in the hearts of the young, how much would they despise their predecessors in life! …
They are told of the existence of duties, laws, and other subjects of vast importance, and yet they see men who ought to be serious spending their time in material pursuits, in hoarding money, or in sensual gratifications.
Is there not in all this enough to distress a sensitive mind, and to lead it to utter the complaint, "O God! wherefore hast Thou placed me in the midst of such contradictions? What am I to do? My father, the man whom I am bound to resemble most on earth, can I condemn him? Can I any the more blame my mother, or charge her with weakness—my mother, whose influence over me is so strong? What, then, am I to do? What must I become? Is life a desert wherein I am lost? Is there no one to guide me? Those who should direct are the first to mislead me. My father says: Do as I do; follow my example. My mother, with all the power of maternal affection, says: 'No, no, my son; do not follow your father, for if you do you will perish'." What shame should we take to ourselves for a state of things like this, and how much should we pity those who are its victims!
And then the lower classes—the people,—who do penance under our eyes in toil and suffering, how can we help loving, how avoid compassionating, them? Undoubtedly, they have their faults, their frailties, and their vices; but are we not more blameworthy than they? The people are always what they are made. Is it their fault if the pernicious doctrines and scandals of the higher orders have stained the lower classes of society? Moreover, they have been treated without pity and without mercy. They have been despoiled of all: even that last resource, hope, has been taken from them. They have been forbidden to dream of happiness. Heartless men have interposed between them and heaven, and have said to them, "Listen; your toil, your trials, your rags, your hunger, the hunger of your wives and children—such is your lot. You have nothing else to hope for; except, perchance, the pleasures of revelry." They have been deprived of every thing: they had hopes of a better future, which have been taken from them; they had God above, who has been robbed from them, and they have been told that heaven consisted in the enjoyments of earth. Meanwhile, they are miserable; and being miserable are, as it were, doomed already: yet, what have they done to merit this?
Yes, there has been no pity shown to the people; for has not the present age regarded Christianity as a delusion? Christianity ought to have been respected among the people, because it benefited them, because it alleviated their wretchedness. But no, a cruel age has had the fell courage to snatch it from them. A tale is told of a prisoner who became deeply attached to a spider, which served to while away the tedium of his captivity. He fed it with his own food, and it was his delight to see it scamper about his cell; but the jailer, noticing this innocent gratification, crushed the insect. … The spider was undoubtedly an insignificant thing; but the jailer's conduct was harsh, and all would denounce it as a gratuitously brutal act. Well, then, if religion among the people had been regarded merely as the spider of this poor prisoner, it ought to have been respected, because it might have done them good. On the contrary, the laborer has been denied the hope that there will be a time of rest; the sufferer, that some day there will be consolation; the wronged has not been allowed to anticipate that hereafter justice will be meted out; the mother who deplores the loss of her child has been denied the hope that some day she shall behold him again. Every thing has been taken from the people, and nothing has been left them but material pleasures to be enjoyed at rare intervals.
What a field is here opened out for the exercise of love, of compassion, and of pity! O ye poor people whom Christ loved! is it that all your struggles and trials are merely a foretaste of eternal misery? If you are to suffer here, and to suffer also after death, then you must needs suffer forever! But that we cannot allow, and after the example of Christ, we should say to ourselves:—"I have pity upon the multitude, for if I send them away fasting they will faint by the way."
Lastly, on this Charity depends the success of evangelical preaching.
To be co-workers with Christ in regenerating and saving mankind, we must love it as He loved. He first did men good, then He addressed them. Hence it was that the people, unmindful of their most urgent wants, followed Him exclaiming: "Never man spake like this man."
Let us never forget that the object of preaching is to turn men from wrong-doing, and to lead them to that which is good. This is the great aim of the Christian orator. But where is the seat of good and evil, and where are both elaborated? According to the divine word, "out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemy."
The heart, then, must be touched, moved, laid hold of. It is the heart which receives or rejects the truth; which says to it: "Come, I welcome you;" or, "Begone, you annoy me;" and it is love alone that can reach the heart and change it. An Arab proverb runs thus:—"The neck is bent by the sword; but heart is only bent by heart." If you love, you yourself will be loved; the truth from you will be loved; even self-sacrifice will be an act of love. … What we most want nowadays is not additional knowledge, for nearly all of us know full well what we ought to do. What we really want is the courage to act, the energy to do what is right. Truth has sadly diminished amongst us, and its characteristics also. What we need, then, is a style of preaching which enlightens and sustains, which threatens and encourages, which humbles and exalts, and which throughout speaks to individuals, saying, "I love thee."
It is not by essays of reasoning, any more than by the sword, that the moral world is to be swayed. A little knowledge, much sound sense, and much more heart—that is what is requisite to raise the great mass, the people, and to cleanse and purify them. To be able to reason is human, very human, and one who is a man and nothing more may possess that ability as well as you, perhaps in a higher degree. But to love, to devote one's self, to sacrifice self, is something unearthly, divine, possessing a magic power. Self-devotion, moreover, is the only argument against which human malevolence can find no answer. …
You may employ the most splendid reasonings, clothed in the grandest phraseology, and yet the mind of man will readily find wherewith to elude them. Who knows but that French wit, by one malicious word, may not upset all at once your elaborate structure of arguments? What is required in sacred eloquence is something new, something unexpected. Ask you what it is? It is love; for loving, you will surprise, captivate: you will be irresistible.
For it is useless to disguise the fact that in France nowadays there is scarcely any belief in disinterestedness. Even the people are beginning to think that no one acts without a motive of self-interest; and their thought is aptly expressed in the frank and original reply of a poor devil who was brought before the correctional police for having inscribed some Legitimist sentences on a wall. The president, observing his tattered garments, and his any thing but aristocratic appearance, asked him if he was really a Legitimist. "By no means, Monsieur le President," was the answer; "I merely do as others, as you do, as all do nowadays—I work for those who feed me."
But when the people meet with real affection, a thorough devotedness, then they are overcome at once and yield heartily.
You visit a poor family, or one of the working-classes in a large town, where the people are generally frank, and hardly know how to conceal their thoughts. Do not be surprised, then, if something like the following dialogue should take place:
"Well, sir, but who pays you for visiting us?"
"Nobody."
"What interest, then, have you in coming?"
"None whatever, beyond that of wishing to benefit you and your little ones, whom I love."
"I can scarcely believe it. There must be some thing underhand in this."
But when such persons are convinced that you entertain a sincere affection for them—that there is nothing underhand in what you do—you become all-powerful. The disclosure breaks in upon them like a divine revelation, and they may be said to love the truth even before knowing it. Then you may speak, entreat, or command; you will be listened to, you will be believed, obeyed. What else, indeed, could any do who love you, and also inspire love on your part?
It is quite right to reason and to appeal to the intellect, but it is not enough. Human malice will never be at a loss for a reply to your arguments. You may be acute, logical, endowed with learning and talent, the right may be most clearly on your side, and yet your efforts will be unproductive; nay, you will often be defeated, insomuch that it may be affirmed that he who uses reason only shall perish by reason. On the contrary, love causes things to be regarded from a different point of view, removes difficulties, and imparts light and courage simultaneously.
You say to a worldly woman:—"If you were to occupy yourself a little in good works, such as visiting the poor." … Forthwith she starts a thousand objections against the suggestion:—"What, I, in my position! … I really have no leisure. I have my house, my children, my servants, and so many other things to attend to. Then, my health is so wretched, and my husband cares for nothing. … Besides, it is a woman's first duty to look after her domestic concerns." In a word, she instantly bristles up with good reasons. You encounter a pointed defence everywhere, and no gap to admit your arguments. Beware, therefore, of reasoning with her. Go straight to her heart, beget charity within her, make her to feel, to love, and soon you will hardly recognize her as the same individual, for the change will be almost instantaneous, and every subsidiary stumbling-block will disappear. Then she will go and come, suffer, be humble, self-denying, examplary.
Woman is called the feeble sex. True, when she does not love; but when love takes possession of her soul, she becomes the strong, the able, the devoted sex. She then looks difficulties in the face which would make men tremble.
An orator of high intellectual powers occupies a pulpit, and leaves scarcely any results behind him. He is succeeded by one of ordinary attainments, who draws wondering crowds and converts many. The local sceptics are amazed. "This man's logic and style," say they, "are weak; how comes it that he is so attractive?" It comes from this, that he has a heart; that he loves and is loved in return. So when a venerable superior of missionaries [Footnote 7] wished to learn what success a priest had met with on his tour, he generally asked, "Did you really love your congregations?" If the answer was in the affirmative, the pious man remarked—"Then your mission has been a good one."
[Footnote 7: This clearly refers to Home Missionaries. ED.]
Have a heart, then, in dealing with the people; have charity; love, and cause others to love, to feel, to thrill, to weep, if you wish to be listened to, and to escape the criticisms of the learned as well as the ignorant. Then let them say what they like, let them criticise and inveigh as they please, you will possess an invincible power. What a grand mission, what a glorious heritage is that of loving our fellow-men! Let others seek to lord it over them, and to win their applause; for my part, I prefer holding-out a hand to them, to bless and to pity them, convinced by a secret instinct that it is the best way to save them.
I have already remarked that our language has not always breathed this broad and tender charity. The injustice and unreason which we have had to encounter have made us somewhat querulous, and we have become champions when we should have remained fathers and pastors. We have followed the world too much into the arena of discussion. We have fancied that it was enough to prove a truth in order to secure its adoption into the habits of life. We have forgotten that Saint François de Sales converted 70,000 Protestants by the sweetness of his charity, and not one by argument. Nevertheless, strange enough, much is urged on the young clergyman as regards the necessity and mode of proving a truth and of constructing a sermon, but scarcely any thing on the necessity and manner of loving his audience.
Just look at the young priest on his entrance upon the sacred ministry. He is armed cap-à-pie with arguments, he speaks only by syllogisms. His discourse bristles with now, therefore, consequently. He is dogmatic, peremptory. One might fancy him a nephew of one of those old bearded doctors of the middle ages, such as Petit Jean or Courte-Cuisse. He is disposed to transfix by his words every opponent, and to give quarter to none. He thrusts, cuts, overturns relentlessly. My friend, lay aside a part of your heavy artillery. Take your young man's, your young priest's heart, and place it in the van before your audience, and after that you may resort to your batteries if they are needed. Make yourself beloved,—be a father. Preach affectionately, and your speech, instead of gliding over hearts hardened by pride, will pierce even to the dividing of the joints and marrow; and then that may come to be remarked of you which was said of another priest by a man of genius who had recently been reclaimed to a Christian life:—"I almost regret my restoration, so much would it have gratified me to have been converted by so affectionate a preacher."
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 that the 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.
Chapter II.
The People.
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, and disturbing 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 two floorers. 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.
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 happiness per diem is 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!"
The People in small Towns.
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 own amour 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, that religion there is engrossed with the distaff.
The People in Rural Districts.
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 his commune, 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.
On the Way of doing some little Good to these Three Classes of the People.
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 our demi-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.
No sooner had the prelate begun to speak than there was silence. As he proceeded, one cap was doffed, then two or three more, and soon all heads were bared, in accordance with the rules of French politeness. When the sermon was ended, these men shouted louder than the rest:—"Vive Monseigneur! Vive la Religion!"
It cannot be denied that the manners of the people are often painful in the extreme; but, then, they have so little to fall back upon, and are surrounded by so many temptations. Ignorance frets them, debauchery degrades them, and, besides, having constantly to struggle against the pinchings of want, it is not surprising that they become, as it were, linked to a necessity which weighs upon them so heavily.
Even we, with all our education, our science, the superior moral atmosphere which we breathe,—are we always blameless? When the people look above them, do they always find good examples in the higher classes of society? What would you have them think when they see men who ought to be patterns of virtue, when they see, to use their own expression, respectable scoundrels, with money in their hands and lying words on their lips, endeavoring to seduce their wives or their daughters?
Nevertheless, they have not lost the courage of truthfulness: a rare thing nowadays. They have still moral energy enough to condemn themselves, to condemn their own mode of life, and to admit that they are wrong-doers. A notorious reprobate, after hearing a sermon, remarked to his companion: "All right; religion, after all, is not such a humbug as it has been represented." Scarcely any but the people retain such ingenuousness. Elsewhere the truth is not relished, is not recognized, is rather thrust aside as an intruder. Where, I should like to know, among other classes, will you hear the admission:—"I am misled; I am in the wrong?"
The people scarcely ever attempt to justify their failings by reasoning, or to reduce their vices to a system; for there exists in them a sense of justice and integrity which, when they are calm, leads them to confess that they are unworthy to live.
A man [Footnote 10] who was in the habit of mixing with the least moral class in Paris, relates that he one day had the following conversation with the father of a family whose union had not been blessed by religion.
[Footnote 10: M. Gossin, Manuel de la Société de Saint-François Régis, p. 143.]
"I must apologize," he remarks, "for reproducing this colloquy in all its original crudity; but I shall invent nothing; I shall merely repeat what was actually said by both parties the first time this argmnentum ad hominem was employed.
"'I regret to find that we cannot understand each other. What! you persist in maintaining that in seducing the woman at your side eighteen years ago you did nothing wrong?'
"'Nothing at all. I am an honest man; I have never stolen nor committed murder. I was rather gay when young; but there is no harm in that. As to the woman, I did not compel her. Why did she allow herself to be enticed?'
"'Let us speak on another subject. … Are all these your children?'
"No, sir; we have another at home, a young lass named Seraphine.'
"'I am sorry you have not produced her. I should have been very glad to see her.'
"'It is very civil of you to say so, sir.'
"'Is she grown-up?'
"'Tolerably: she is twelve years old. She is getting on nicely with the Sisters, which is very satisfactory. She sews well already, and is a promising girl.'
"'Your boys here are comely and well-behaved, and do credit to the mother's care.'
"'Yes, it cannot be denied that what she does for them she does thoroughly. She keeps them well washed, and one hears nothing in the morning but "let me comb you; let me wash you." You should see how she souses and scrubs them.'
"'Is Seraphine as comely as her brothers?'
"'Do you hear that, missis? What a goose you are; won't you answer? Well, I will decide for both. On my honor, Seraphine is better looking than any in this house, though we have eighteen lodgers, who have a jolly lot of damsels among them of all shades.'
"'(Then looking fixedly at the man)—'In two or three years, Seraphine, who is still a child, will be a very attractive and modest young woman, and she will be a comfort to you. … But what would you say if a working-man, doing as you did by her mother, should seduce and dishonor the poor girl?'
"He sprang up almost beside himself, and said:— 'What should I say? I would say nothing; but I would murder the villain who dared to inveigle my daughter.'
"'You would be wrong; for the man, according to what you yourself have just said, would be, in your opinion, a perfect man; for he would neither have killed, nor stolen, nor forced your daughter. He could only be charged with having wished to amuse himself a little; which you say is not a crime.
"Still beside himself with rage, he said:—'Nevertheless, I would murder the wretch.'
"'But, my friend, recall to mind what you have done yourself, and then judge.'
"With tears in his eyes, and pressing the hand of his interlocutor, he said:—'Forgive me, sir; I lied to myself when I said what I did. I was boasting just as many others of us do; but I am better than my stupid speeches.'
"I may add, as a characteristic trait of the human heart, that after this dialogue, the father's emotion at seeing his faults placed naked before him was so strong, that he was seized with a fever which lasted several days; that he subsequently thanked me most warmly for having opened his eyes; and that I have now reason to believe in his complete and sincere conversion."
Are we certain that we should find the same frankness and courage elsewhere?
The people, notwithstanding the bravado common to their class, deplore their failings, and if intimate with them, you will often hear them expressing their regret in some such style as this:—"Pity me, for I am most wretched. Do you think it does not make me uncomfortable to see my wife and children miserable, and to know that I am the cause of their misery? I have made good resolutions a thousand times over, and have broken them as often. My passions and my habits have become so inveterate that I am unable to resist them." … They are right; for left to themselves they will never be able to persevere in well-doing. They need the aid of religion, which ought to be afforded them, and which is by no means an impracticable task. Let us hear no more of those incessant excuses that nothing can be done with them on that score.
Away with all discouragement! Away with all despair! Those who indulge in such feelings do us infinite mischief. They are a most dangerous class in our midst; they will do nothing themselves, and will not allow others to do any thing. They try to prevent all good by ceaselessly repeating:—"It will never succeed. … There are so many obstacles to be encountered. … It is headstrong to attempt it."
This is one of the most hideous sores of the age. Such men accuse others, and yet never seem to reflect that despair is the greatest possible crime in the sight of God.
Nothing can be done with the French people! What, then, have we come to? We admit that something can be done for felons in the hulks, for the pagan Chinese, for American savages, for the cannibals of Oceania. We believe it, for we send them help and missionaries; and yet nothing can be done for our France, for the nation beloved of God and His Church, which sheds its blood and spends its gold for the conversion of the infidels, and where so many heroic virtues still exist! It is a calumny against France. In order to justify your own neglect, you slander your brethren, you expose your ignorance of your country, you ignore the power of the Gospel and the virtue of the Cross. … Know, then, that we may yet regenerate the people. … Yes, we can, and if we cannot we ought, for it is a sacred duty; and he who does not discharge his own duty in that respect, has no right to give an opinion about the duty of others.
But what are the means which should be employed to bring the people nearer to the Gospel?
Religion must first be exhibited to them as it really is—beautiful, good, and lovely; and then you may hold it up to them as true, divine, and obligatory. You must first attract them by the senses and the imagination, by sentiment, and by the heart. The people like to be interested, touched, moved. They are fond of sentiment, of festivals, and shows. After a week spent in absorbing material drudgery their poor souls require the breath of the Divine word to animate and cheer them. To them especially religion should be "glad tidings"—should bring them mental repose, refreshment, and peace. We should set out by making them to feel, to love, and to bless; instead of which we begin with reasoning, and end with the same. We have a mania, a rage for reasoning; but make the people love first, then you may reason, and will be understood.
I say that in order to make religion lovely in the eyes of the people, you should exhibit it under its most attractive aspect. Point out the good which it does on all sides, to orphans, to children and their parents, to the forsaken, to the people themselves, their wives, their daughters, and their fathers. Appeal to their good sense and to their heart. Ask: "Is it not true? I refer the decision to your own judgment." Say to the people, but with overflowing affection:—"My dear friends, do what you will, you will never find a better resource than religion; religion will always be your best stay. … When you have spent your all, when the world will have nothing more to do with you, when your bodies shall be worn out by old age and sickness, when from dread of you men will flee from you as from a contagion, you will still find by your bedside a priest or a sister of charity to care for you and to bless you." [Footnote 11]
[Footnote 11: Le Manuel de Charité.]
But in order to make religion beloved, you must secure some love for the priest also; for the people confound our cause with that of God. In their estimation, religion is what the priest is; and if they do not love the one, they will hardly entertain any love for the other.
The priest, then, should appear to them surrounded with a halo of charity. He must make himself known; he will always gain by being known. He has been depicted in such dark colors that a true view of him will effectually remove many prejudices, and give occasion to the oft-recurring remark:— "Would that all priests were like this one."
But if the people no longer come to us, we must go to them. We don't mind going after the heathen of America and Asia; we cross the seas to get at them; whereas there are in our midst—in our workshops, our cottages, and throughout the country—tens of thousands, perhaps millions, of practical pagans. We know this well, we confess it, we deplore it, and yet we hesitate to cross the distance which separates us from them! Poor French souls! Can it, indeed, be that you are not of so much value as the souls of Chinese?
To come to us the people must know the value, the necessity of religion. But do they entertain any such idea? Surrounded as they have been with so many passions and prejudices, is it surprising that they are now insensible and mistrustful? Should we be better than they if we had breathed the same pestiferous atmosphere? If they are weak in the faith, it is our duty to pity them, according to the apostolic injunction:—"We that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves."
But one replies:—"I cannot go to the people, for I don't know what to say to them, how to address them." Well, I will tell you. The best way of winning them, and others too, is to know how to listen. That is one of the greatest talents in the direction of human affairs. The man to whom you have listened attentively will always go away satisfied with himself, and with you also.
You do the people good by the bare fact of listening to them. Let them, therefore, complain and talk nonsense to their hearts content. Overlook their errors, prejudices, outbursts of passion, and their profanities, too. Let them discharge all the gall which is in their hearts, and then they will be far more tractable. They will tell you that they have no time to practise religious duties; that they have no need of religion; that it is enough to be honest; that they don't believe in another life; that Providence is unjust, bestowing all the comforts on one class, and all the miseries on the other. You may also expect to meet with opprobious personalities. They will tell you that priests are just like other men; that they only work when they are paid, and so forth. Overlook all such remarks; they are enemies which are taking their departure, and you will have fewer to encounter. Hear all, and be not disconcerted at any thing that you hear; on the contrary, after such an explosion, redouble your kindness, assail the heart where your attack is least expected, sympathize cordially with them, give them a hearty shake of the hand, and on leaving say with candor:—"Well, well, I perceive that there is good in you. At all events, you are frank, and I like frankness. You are not as bad as you think. I will call again to-morrow and have another chat with you." In this way you may baffle the most diabolical ill-will.
Then, when a friendly footing has been established, you may refer to the most salient objections and errors, and your words will be like so many gleams of light. Who knows but that the individuals themselves will not be the first to say:—"I know what you are referring to; but make yourself easy on that score, for much that I said the other day was in order to get rid of you."
Occasionally you will have to deal with a blunt and surly character. Ask such an one, in an affectionate manner, after he has expended his curses and oaths:—"Is that all that you have to urge against religion and society? It is all you know, perhaps; but I could tell you a great deal more. You have forgotten this and overlooked that," till at length he will be induced to say:—"I perceive that you are bantering me;" and he will never afterward repeat his objections or his imprecations.
But, good God! why are we so much startled and horrified when we hear such profanities? It is the very way to increase the evil. Are we ignorant of what a man is who is vicious, or ignorant, or passionate? Does he always know the drift of his words? The man of the present age has a special claim to the pardon which the Saviour prayed for on the cross. Besides, the profane man is not always so far from God as is thought; such an one is not the most difficult of conversion. A very witty man, speaking of another whose restoration to religion has since gladdened the Church, remarked:—"I begin to have hope of him; for when one talks about Christianity to him he is annoyed, and blasphemes." We have the besetting foible of readily believing those who tell us that they have no faith. They must, indeed, regard us as most credulous simpletons when they see us approach them with a cart-load of argument to prove to them what they already know as well as we do, or what they would know if their poor hearts were a little less diseased.
Here, again, we see that charity must initiate and direct our efforts. As to subsequent measures, if you would win over the people, if you would acquire an irresistible influence over them, busy yourself in what concerns them, and be unremitting in your care of their poor. I will even go so far as to say, make a semblance of taking this interest in them, and you will gain a great ascendency over them, your words will have a magic effect upon them, and they will be ready to overlook every thing else in you, even the fact of your being a priest. … This is a subject deserving the serious consideration of those who have a hearty desire to labor for the salvation of souls.