The golden rule should govern us in dealing with those whom we call unbelievers, with heathen, and with all who do not accept our religious views.  The Jews are with us as a perpetual lesson to teach us modesty and civility.  The religion we profess is not self-evident.  It did not convince the people to whom it was sent.  We have no claim to take it for granted that we are all right, and they are all wrong.  And, therefore, in the midst of all the triumphs of Christianity, it is well that the stately synagogue should lift its walls by the side of the aspiring cathedral, a perpetual reminder that there are many mansions in the Father’s earthly house as well as in the heavenly one; that civilized humanity, longer in time and broader in space than any historical form of belief, is mightier than any one institution or organization it includes.

Many years ago I argued with myself the proposition which my Hebrew correspondent has suggested.  Recognizing the fact that I was born to a birthright of national and social prejudices against “the chosen people,”—­chosen as the object of contumely and abuse by the rest of the world,—­I pictured my own inherited feelings of aversion in all their intensity, and the strain of thought under the influence of which those prejudices gave way to a more human, a more truly Christian feeling of brotherhood.  I must ask your indulgence while I quote a few verses from a poem of my own, printed long ago under the title “At the Pantomime.”

I was crowded between two children of Israel, and gave free inward expression to my feelings.  All at once I happened to look more closely at one of my neighbors, and saw that the youth was the very ideal of the Son of Mary.

   A fresh young cheek whose olive hue
   The mantling blood shows faintly through;
   Locks dark as midnight, that divide
   And shade the neck on either side;
   Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam
   Clear as a starlit mountain stream;
   So looked that other child of Shem,
   The Maiden’s Boy of Bethlehem!

   —­And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood
   That flows unmingled from the Flood,
   Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains
   Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! 
   The New World’s foundling, in thy pride
   Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,
   And lo! the very semblance there
   The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

   I see that radiant image rise,
   The flowing hair, the pitying eyes,
   The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows
   The blush of Sharon’s opening rose,
   Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet
   Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat,
   Thy lips would press his garment’s hem
   That curl in wrathful scorn for them!

   A sudden mist, a watery screen,
   Dropped like a veil before the scene;
   The shadow floated from my soul,
   And to my lips a whisper stole: 
   —­Thy prophets caught the Spirit’s flame,
   From thee the Son of Mary came,
   With thee the Father deigned to dwell,
   Peace be upon thee, Israel!