"I am glad to see, however, that some Protestants have recognized the value of the confessional to society, and have spoken warmly of its sacred influence. I suppose you know how much attention has lately been drawn to the great appalling sin of modern American women—the murder of their offspring yet unborn. It is a sin so prevalent that, as I remember reading some time ago in The Congregationalist, it is said that in a certain populous district in a large western city, not a single Anglo-American child had been born alive in three years! It has not escaped the notice of physicians that no such practice prevails among the Catholic population. Dr. Storer, of Boston, (a Protestant,) explains this difference in his well-known essay on the subject, by the influence of the confessional; and The Congregationalist took the same view. Indeed, both virtually admit that, if it were not for the confessional, the natural increase of population in the United States would be almost entirely checked."
"That is a good thing for The Observer to meditate upon; but I am afraid the venerable old alarmist is incorrigible. It is hard to reason with a man whose hair perpetually stands on end with fright."
"Yes, or with a professional dealer in bugaboos. But even if he believes all his stories, I don't see what good he can possibly expect to come of telling them. They are only irritating."
"Irritating! they are criminally dangerous. The greatest enemy to a community is the man who stirs up the animosity of religious denominations against each other. The natural effect of such stories is to inspire the ignorant and passionate on the one side with contempt and hatred, on the other with resentment; and how long can society be sure of peace when it is filled with such dangerous elements? Of course, the Catholics are not so silly or so wicked as to fly to arms whenever an insult is uttered against the church, neither are Protestants going to defend Luther and Henry VIII. with fire and riot; but suppose some unforeseen circumstance produces an outbreak, what a terrible responsibility will rest upon those who prepared the materials of combustion! Mr. Froude, speaking of the St. Bartholomew massacre, says, the guilt was the queen's, but her plan could never have been carried out, had not theological frenzy already been heated to the boiling-point. He is wrong in this case, for it is proved that theological frenzy had nothing to do with the slaughter; political frenzy is sometimes quite as dangerous; but I wish those who think he is right would apply his principle to the regulation of their own conduct. The frenzy which instigated the burning of the Charlestown convent, the bloodshed and incendiarism of the Native American movement in Philadelphia, and the Know-Nothing riots in different parts of the country, had been gathered up and nursed long beforehand by preachers like The Observer. They did not know what they were doing, I suppose, but others foresaw and predicted the consequences. Rant is always the forerunner of riot. The periodical excitement on the subject of popery which breaks out in the United States, like the cholera or yellow fever, has always been followed by lamentable disturbances. The man who makes his living by thundering at the corruptions of the Church of Rome, is an incendiary in fact, though he may not be in intention. Of course, it is a pity that men should be prone to anger. It is a pity that we are not always meek, and long-suffering, and forgiving; that we do not bear reproaches with patience, and repay calumnies with good deeds. Our Lord tells us to love our enemies, but only a few of us are good enough to obey him. If all Catholics were perfect Christians, The Observer might shout hard names at us until it was black in the face, and there would be no danger; but there is a good deal of human nature in us, after all, and it is better not to go near gunpowder with a lighted candle. I do not mean to say, of course, that there is danger of our deliberately resenting such attacks. We are far too sensible for that. No amount of abuse would, of itself, provoke us to break the peace. But such calumnious harangues tend first to draw a broad line of distinction between Catholics and Protestants, and keep them apart, which, alone, is a social evil; then they inevitably fill the two parties with mutual dislike, and, in time, drive them to antipathy; the bad feeling gets worse and worse; and some day accident brings about a clash, and there is a terrible explosion, nobody knows exactly how, and nobody knows who is most to blame. All we can determine about it is, to use Froude's words, that it could not have happened 'had not theological frenzy already been heated to the boiling-point.' I think it is high time that all decent citizens, all honest theological disputants, should set their faces against the Gospel of Frenzy. I am willing to meet any man in a fair controversy, but there is nothing but danger and aggravation in bandying hard names. The only legitimate object of controversy is to make converts, and you can't do that without good temper and honest argument. The apparent purpose of such tirades as those of The Observer, is merely to show the preacher's own party how much better they are than the rest of the world. Nobody but a fool could expect them to do any good to the Catholics; you can't make friends with a man by abusing his mother. It ought to be clearly understood that calm theological discussion over points of discipline or dogma is always in order; but atrocious charges, unsupported by a tittle of evidence, deserve no name but that of sheer calumny, and all good men ought to detest them. If Protestant preachers only carried into the pulpit and the editorial chair the same rules of morality which, I am happy to believe, they generally practise in private life, they would observe this cardinal principle, not to publish infamous accusations against their neighbors unless they have personal knowledge of their truth."
Abscondita.
Flower of the forest, that, unseen,
With sweetness fill'st the vernal grove,
Where hid'st thou? 'Mid the grasses green,
Or those dim boughs that mix above?
Thou bird that, darkling, sing'st a song
That shook the bowers of paradise,
Thou too art hid thy leaves among:
Thou sing'st unseen of mortal eyes.
Of her thou sing'st whose every breath
Sweetened a world too blind to heed;
Of Him—Death's Conqueror—that from death
Alone would take the crown decreed.
Thou sing'st that secret gifts are best;
That only like to God are they
Who keep God's secret in their breast,
And hide, as stars are hid by day.
Aubrey De Vere.