Chapter II: The People (1)

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. {41} 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.

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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.

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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. {44} 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.

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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. {46} 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.

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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.

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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.

{49}

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. {50} "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." {51} 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."

{52}

"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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. {57} 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!"

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_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. {59} 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. {60} 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. {61} 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.

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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.

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_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. {64} 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. {65} 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.]

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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.

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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?

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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.]

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"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.'

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"'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.'

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"'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. {72} 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! {73} 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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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_."