Ye may shake your heads if you will and fear there 'll be trouble , but I doubt it . We 've warm hearts of our own , and the best of us do n't forget that when we were starving , America -- the saints bless the jewel ! -- sent us bread ; when we were dying for lack of work , America opened her arms and took us in , and now helps us to build churches , homes and schools by giving us a share of the riches all men work for and win . It 's a generous nation ye are , and a brave one , and we showed our gratitude by fighting for ye in the day of trouble and giving ye our Phil , and many another broth of a boy . The land is wide enough for us both , and while we work and fight and grow together , each may learn something from the other . I 'm free to confess that your religion looks a bit cold and hard to me , even here in the good city where each man may ride his own hobby to death , and hoot at his neighbors as much as he will . You seem to keep your piety shut up all the week in your bare , white churches , and only let it out on Sundays , just a trifle musty with disuse . You set your rich , warm and soft to the fore , and leave the poor shivering at the door . You give your people bare walls to look upon , common-place music to listen to , dull sermons to put them asleep , and then wonder why they stay away , or take no interest when they come . `` We leave our doors open day and night ; our lamps are always burning , and we may come into our Father 's house at any hour . We let rich and poor kneel together , all being equal there . With us abroad you 'll see prince and peasant side by side , school-boy and bishop , market-woman and noble lady , saint and sinner , praying to the Holy Mary , whose motherly arms are open to high and low . We make our churches inviting with immortal music , pictures by the world 's great masters , and rites that are splendid symbols of the faith we hold . Call it mummery if ye like , but let me ask you why so many of your sheep stray into our fold ? It 's because they miss the warmth , the hearty , the maternal tenderness which all souls love and long for , and fail to find in your stern . Puritanical belief . By Saint Peter ! I 've seen many a lukewarm worshipper , who for years has nodded in your cushioned pews , wake and glow with something akin to genuine piety while kneeling on the stone pavement of one of our cathedrals , with Raphael 's angels before his eyes , with strains of magnificent music in his ears , and all about him , in shapes of power or beauty , the saints and martyrs who have saved the world , and whose presence inspires him to follow their divine example . It 's not complaining of ye I am , but just reminding ye that men are but children after all , and need more tempting to virtue than they do to vice , which last comes easy to 'em since the Fall . Do your best in your own ways to get the poor souls into bliss , and good luck to ye .
But remember , there 's room in the Holy Mother Church for all , and when your own priests send ye to the divil , XXXXX straight to us and we 'll take ye in . ''
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