A priest enters a workshop, say, of gunsmiths. On perceiving the cassock, those blackened figures immediately become blacker still. They purposely turn their backs, in order to give him no inducement to address them, and should he do so, the reply is generally a curt "Yes, sir," uttered in as dry and morose a tone as possible. He walks through the establishment, and meets everywhere with a similar reception. Meanwhile, one of the workmen whispers something to the foreman, which the priest fancies may be a suggestion for his immediate expulsion; but he is speedily reassured. What passed is transmitted from one group to another, and suddenly the countenances and hearts of all undergo a change. Instead of turning their backs, the workmen now move sideways, as if to invite a colloquy as the visitor moves along, and before he utters a word, they all stand ready, with cap in hand, to welcome his address. The men become at once polite, amiable, charming—Frenchmen, in fact, in the best meaning of the word. The whispered sentence was the sacramental saying of the poor:—"This priest is kind to the unfortunate; he loves the people; he is not a proud man." O wondrous power of charity! how little art thou understood? and yet thou canst thus tame even the most unruly! We hear much on all sides about the best means of enlightening and reforming the people, and of preventing them from harboring envy and hatred. What is really required to that end is, as we have been endeavoring to show, the exercise of charity.
But, further, would you acquire an unlimited sway over the people? Would you exert a divine power over them? Become poor, and live in an humble dwelling. Herein I no longer insist on duties and obligations; I merely give the counsels of charity, and the reader may, if he pleases, skip over the next few lines. Yes, unfurnish your house for the poor; send your silver plate, if you have any, to the money changer; send your fauteuils and your couches to the fancy warehouse; give one of your mattresses to him who has none; send your clock to the pawnbroker, and let your watch go and exchange places with it occasionally. Contend for your left-off clothes and linen with your old housekeeper, who will threaten to be seriously vexed if you attempt to rob her of her perquisites. Accustom yourself to privations. Have a room like that of the Cardinal Cheverus: a small table and a chair constituted the furniture, a truck bedstead covered with a light mattress formed his couch, and the most miserable room in his palace was that which he chose to occupy. [Footnote 12]
[Footnote 12: Vie du Cardinal, p. 316.]
Do this, and then speak and act, and you will be listened to, believed, blessed, worshipped. Your heart will overflow with joy, so much so that you may be induced to say:—"I fear lest I am receiving my reward here, and that none awaits me in heaven."
Such voluntary poverty not only impresses the people, it exercises also a powerful influence on the highest intellects, transforming and disposing them to acknowledge the truth.
A person who had taken a prominent part in public affairs made the following remarks after an interview with an eminently pious man:—"What most impressed me was not his language, which, nevertheless, was powerful and keen; but it was his furniture, his wretched pallet, his three rush chairs and rickety table—all which formed a most appropriate frame, so to speak, to his anchorite figure. I returned home saying:—'I have seen something divine.'" These are the ways of doing good which cost little, and are within the reach of every one.
But to return. As I was remarking, the priest must be known and loved, in order that, through him, religion may be known and loved. To attain this, let him first appear to the people as full of grace, and afterward as full of truth. Let love precede truth, and then the latter will enter into the heart as into its own domain. Argument must be avoided, lest we drive the man of the people to the miserable vanity of setting himself up as an enemy to Christianity. Above all, we must be on our guard against humiliating any one; for it is very easy to reduce a man to silence by a witticism, or to make him fall into inconsistency when he is not a Christian. With the reason of God it is always possible to nonplus the reasoning of men.
In a word, we should consult our hearts much, and our heads only a little. Yes, let us love the poor people, who have been so little loved during their lives. Are not the people the most notable part of our family? I mean of the priest's family; for we have no other to love. It is true that we do not find its members very amiable at first; but we soon get attached to them: we even become enthusiastic about them, and experience a sincere pleasure in associating with those dear mauvais sujets. Especially must we bear with the weak, with the smoking flax and the bruised reed. We must have a kindly word for all: a smile for this one, a salutation for that one, a picture for the little child of the more depraved. That child will love us; the mother will like nothing better than to do the same, and perchance the father may follow. … In a word, we must bring into play all the assiduities and the holy wiles of charity.