a man who thinks nothing of appearances often fails to convince his audience that he cares more for his message than for the fact that he is the mouthpiece of it.  I find it very difficult to say whether it is well for people who cherish such illusions about their personal impressiveness to get rid of such illusions, when personal impressiveness is a real factor in their success.  To do a thing really well it is essential to have a substantial confidence in one’s aptitude for the task.  And undoubtedly diffidence and humility, however sincere, are a bad outfit for a man in a public position.  I am inclined to think that self-confidence, and a certain degree of self-satisfaction, are valuable assets, so long as a man believes primarily in the importance of what he has to say and do, and only secondarily in his own power of, and fitness for, saying and doing it.

There is an interesting story—­I do not vouch for the truth of it—­ that used to be told of Cardinal Manning, who undoubtedly had a strong sense of dramatic effect.  He was putting on his robes one evening in the sacristy of the Cathedral at Westminster, when a noise was heard at the door, as of one who was determined on forcing an entrance in spite of the remonstrances of the attendants.  In a moment a big, strongly-built person, looking like a prosperous man of business, labouring under a vehement and passionate emotion, came quickly in, looked about him, and advancing to Manning, poured out a series of indignant reproaches.  “You have got hold of my boy,” he said, “with your hypocritical and sneaking methods; you have made him a Roman Catholic; you have ruined the happiness and peace of our home; you have broken his mother’s heart, and overwhelmed us in misery.”  He went on in this strain at some length.  Manning, who was standing in his cassock, drew himself up in an attitude of majestic dignity, and waited until the intruder’s eloquence had exhausted itself, and had ended with threatening gestures.  Some of those present would have intervened, but Manning with an air of command waved them back, and then, pointing his hand at the man, he said:  “Now, sir, I have allowed you to have your say, and you shall hear me in reply.  You have traduced Holy Church, you have broken in upon the Sanctuary, you have uttered vile and abominable slanders against the Faith; and I tell you,” he added, pausing for an instant with flashing eyes and marble visage, “I tell you that within three months you will be a Catholic yourself.”  He then turned sharply on his heel and went on with his preparations.  The man was utterly discomfited; he made as though he would speak, but was unable to find words; he looked round, and eventually slunk out of the sacristy in silence.

One of those present ventured to ask Manning afterwards about the strange scene.  “Had the Cardinal,” he inquired, “any sudden premonition that the man himself would adopt the Faith in so short a time?” Manning smiled indulgently, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder, and said:  “Ah, my dear friend, who shall say?  You see, it was a very awkward moment, and I had to deal with the situation as I best could.”