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. {80} 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.] {81} 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."