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. {16} 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.

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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."

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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.]

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"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.

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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."

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"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.]

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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.]

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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?

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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.

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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. {26} 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. ... {27} 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.

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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. {29} 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.

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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 something underhand in this."

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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." {32} 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.]

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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. {34} 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."

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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.

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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.]

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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.

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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? {39} 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.

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