In the interior of this district, that is to say in the midst of her rich plains, and in the hilly but not mountainous parts of it, the curés are quite of another stamp; less poor than the herbivorous gentleman we have just described, but not so well to do as those of Burgundy; living under a state of things altogether peculiar to themselves, far from the great cities, and yet in direct communication with them, they are obliged by a common interest to identify themselves with the events of the day. Every curate of the plain possesses an immense influence in his parish and neighbourhood, and as at a moment their support may be of great use in a political point of view, the government, which is alive to everything, caresses, smiles on, and cajoles them.
In the moorland districts, also, and in the little villages which border the great forests, the curés are everything, and do everything. They perform the part of judge, doctor and apothecary, banker and architect, carpenter and schoolmaster; they give the designs for the cottages, mark the boundaries of estates, receive and put out the savings of their flocks, marry, baptize, and bury, offer consolation to the afflicted, encourage the unfortunate, purchase the crops, and sell a neighbour's vineyard. They represent the sun, by the influence of whose rays everything germinates and lives; it is their hand—the hand of justice—that arrests and heals all quarrels; the unselfish source from whence good counsels flow—the moral charter from which the peasant reads and learns the duties of a citizen.
Ask not the population of our plains and forests, and secluded agricultural districts, to which political party they belong; if they are republicans, royalists, socialists or communists, reds or blues, whites or tricolor,—they know nothing of all this. Their opinions—their religion—are those of Monsieur le Curé. They know his prudence, his charity, his good sense; they know he loves them like a father; that he would not leave them for a bishopric—no, not for a cardinal's scarlet hat;—that as he has lived, so will he die with them: that is enough for them. Thus they consult him when they wish to form an opinion for themselves, much in the same way as a sportsman, anxious to take the field, looks up at the chanticleer on some village-steeple to know what he ought to think of the cloudy sky above; and when they see the good man sauntering past their cottages, with head erect and animated step, smiling, and evidently full of cheerful, charitable thoughts, and on good deeds intent, kissing the little children, giving a rosy apple to one, and a playful tap to another; offering a sly word of hope to the young girls, and a few kind ones to the aged and infirm,—all the village is elated; and the old maids fail not to present him with a fat fowl, or some such substantial expression of their respect. But if, alas! the good curé should appear walking with a slow and solemn step, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and an anxious and thoughtful look upon his brow, his flock gaze at one another, and whisper in an under tone that something is amiss.
At the epoch of political convulsions and revolutions, when systems and governments, men and ideas, arise and disappear, as if they went by steam,—when the authorities in the great towns wish to interfere with the police regulations and customs that govern the agricultural classes,—when they attempt to force them to gallop at full speed on the high road of progress as they call it, and that to attain this desirable end, handsome young men arrive from Paris in black coats and white neckcloths, furnished with a marvellous flow of eloquent sophisms, pretending to prove to the simple and honest peasants that in order to be more free, happy, and rich, they must, without further ado, kill, burn, and destroy,—the villagers, quite mystified, listen with open mouth; but as to understanding what the gentleman in black—the dark shadow of the government of progress—so glibly states, he might as well be talking Turkish or Japanese. Every one looks at Monsieur le Curé, they scan his face, and ask him what they are to do; and let him only feel angry or disgusted with the wordy nonsense, and just make one sign, or raise one finger, and 1200—aye, 2000 men would in a trice surround him, and send the orator and all his staff to preach their pestilential doctrines under the turf, and this without more ceremony and remorse than if they were so many mad dogs. Poor fools! who think it possible to change a people in a few weeks, and imagine that a fine discourse from lips unknown and unloved will have a deeper effect upon men's minds than the admonitions of a pastor, whose life has been without reproach, and adorned with every practical virtue.
Yes, the influence exercised in our rural districts by the curés is great, and this influence is well merited, for it is never abused—and never used unless for the benefit and happiness of the flock confided to their care. Without any motive of a personal nature, without ambition in any sense to which that word can apply, they preach the Catholic religion in all its simplicity, accepting and considering as brothers all those who really desire to follow the example of their Saviour Christ—all those who really love to do good; unworldly and unselfish, they would think themselves dishonoured, their reputation sullied, if the gown, which gives them in the eyes of the people a sacred character, served as a cloak, a pretext to cover a dishonourable or disgraceful action.
It is also remarkable, and speaks volumes in their favour, that the bishops are almost always at war with these poor and self-denying curés, and would wish to see them take more interest in temporal affairs, which they do not in the least understand; they would fain put into their mouths the language of anger and bitter feeling, alike foreign to their natures and the religion of their Divine master. The large proprietors also, those who live on their estates and do not press hard upon their dependants, enjoy great consideration, and share largely with the curés the hold they have on the affections of the people. They frequently direct the opinions of the masses, and, with the exception of their pastors, are the only class our rural population know and revere. As to the generality of our statesmen, good, bad, or indifferent, their names, brilliant as they may be, are not half so well known in our villages as that of the most obscure labourer, the humble artizan who knows how to file a saw or make a wheel.
"Who is that gentleman, sir?" said a Morvinian of the plain to me one day, pointing to a tall thin man, with a bald head, and a pair of gold spectacles on his nose,—a notability of the legislative assembly who was going to step into the village tribune.
"That gentleman?" I replied; "he is an orator."
"Ah! an orator: and pray what sort of a bird is that? what is he going to chirrup about?"
"An orator is not a bird, my good fellow; he does not sing, he makes very fine speeches."