"the Scripture moving us in sundry places," and all the rest of it? Mind, I do not wish to laugh at any man's religion; but I must observe, that the one system has all the elasticity and life of a Divine creation, and the other is as stiff and wooden as any thing that man ever hammered together. I have forgotten to say, that among the intentions which my good folks bring to Mass, a favourite one is the conversion of those who are not Catholics. Who knows but some of those who were near you, were praying all the while that your eyes might be opened to the truth before it is too late? Well, do not answer me now. But if you wish to hear more of these things, you can come to my house this evening, after rosary and benediction are over; unless, indeed (for as I came by the hedge, I could not help hearing the last words spoken to you before we met) you are going to the vicarage. So, good day to you, my friend. (Priest goes.) John (very slowly). The vicarage? Why, no. I think, if I go any where after my work, it won't be to the vicar. age. NOTE. For a more detailed explanation of the doctrine of the great Sacrifice of the Mass, see Tracts Nos. 24, 26, 30, Extra I., and 61 in this series. LONDON: PRINTED BY LEVEY, ROBSON, AND FRANKLYN, Great New Street and Fetter Lane. A Few Words on the Confessional THAT dreadful name! Who has not heard of it? What Protestant has not had the lesson duly inculcated on his mind from his earliest youth, that of all the practical abominations of Popery, the confessional is one of the worst? Many, perhaps, of those who read these pages, have grown up with the fixed idea that the confessional was an invention of the crafty monks of the middle ages, continued by their no less crafty successors in modern times. "It was their receipt of custom, where they sat minting money out of the sins of their penitents. The wealthy transgressor, who could afford to come down handsomely, was let off on easy terms; he was the great hornet or drone, breaking through the spider's web. But woe to the weaker flies that get entangled there! No mercy for them. The lean and hungry priest-spider, lurking there in his obscure corner, fixes hist fangs upon them, and drains them, not indeed of their heart's blood, but of the scanty pittance that was to keep. body and soul together! The portion of the widow, the inheritance of the fatherless, the hard-won wages of the labourer and artisan, all find their way, under plea of absolution, into that insatiable grasp. Oh, the confessional was a choice invention of the priesthood! No wonder they strain every nerve to uphold it." Then, too, there are other darker and more iniquitous charges, lending their aid to build up that towering Protestant tradition which denounces the confessional, without really knowing aught about the matter. All writers and declaimers, from the Reformation downwards,-heads of families, quiet country gentlemen, pulpit-orators, and what not, have said the same thing for some three hundred years; they say it to-day, and will say it again to-morrow. And thus, armed with this great tradition as with a wide mouthed blunderbuss, the Protestant fires boldly into the dark, hit or miss; and having first settled in his mind what the confessional has been, must be, and shall be, concludes by force of an unanswerable logic what it is. We also have our notions of what it is. And one thing we would venture to remark; that they who have never entered a confessional are not quite so likely to be acquainted with it as those who have. The Hindoo subjects of the East India Company believe the Company itself to be a mighty Begum, or princess, sitting enthroned in Leadenhall Street. Half the globe lies between them, and they have no adequate means of correcting their judgment. Protestants live side by side with their Catholic neighbours, and meet them daily in the common intercourse of life; and yet, strange to say, they surround themselves with an atmosphere of prejudice as thick and blinding, though as unsubstantial, as a London fog, that prevents their seeing whereabouts their neighbours stand, and deadens the sound of their voices when they would address them. Hence it is, that on our present subject, as on so many others of Catholic interest, the great body of intelligent educated Englishmen entertain notions as groundless and extravagant as those of the Hindoo regarding the princess in Leadenhall Street. For what, in truth, does a Protestant see, and what can he ascertain, of the confessional? He wanders into some church in Italy, we will imagine, and a scene presents itself to his astonished eyes and curious mind, to the meaning of which he has but little clue. It is getting dusk, on a Friday or Saturday evening, or on the eve of a festival. The old church looks more solemn and mysterious than ever in that gloom; its arches and pillars soar away into the darkness overhead. No light but the last beams dying on the antique glass of those narrow windows, or a few lamps burning here and there at some of the altars, including one that glimmers suspended before a large crucifix, round which a few poor women are kneeling and saying their beads. Why all this gloom and mystery? Simply, my good friend, because these poor people have been hard at work all day, and are now dedicating just that portion of their time which |