A PLEASANT ASSURANCE.
The Marquis of Normandy, we perceive, has been making some inquiries relative to the “Drainage Bills,” and has been assured by Lord Ellenborough, that the subject should meet the attention of government during the recess. We place full reliance on his Lordship’s promise—the drainage of the country has been ever a paramount object with our Whig and Tory rulers.
CHRISTIANITY.—PRICE FIFTEEN SHILLINGS.
The English poor have tender teachers. In the first place, the genius of Money, by a hundred direct and indirect lessons, preaches to them the infamy of destitution; thereby softening their hearts to a sweet humility with a strong sense of their wickedness. Then comes Law, with its whips and bonds, to chastise and tie up “the offending Adam”—that is, the Adam without a pocket,—and then the gentle violence of kindly Mother Church leads the poor man far from the fatal presence of his Gorgon wants, to consort him with meek-eyed Charity,—to give him glimpses of the Land of Promise,—to make him hear the rippling waters of Eternal Truth,—to feast his senses with the odours of Eternal sweets. Happy English poor! Ye are not scurfed with the vanities of the flesh! Under the affectionate discipline of the British Magi L.S.D.,—the “three kings” tasking human muscles, banqueting on human heartstrings,—ye are happily rescued from any visitation of those worldly comforts that hold the weakness of humanity to life! Hence, by the benevolence of those who have only solid acres, ye are permitted to have an unlimited portion of the sky; and banned by the mundane ones who have wine in their cellars, and venison in the larder from the gross diet of beer and beef—ye are permitted to take your bellyful of the savoury food cooked for the Hebrew patriarch. Once a week, at least, ye are invited to feast with Joseph in the house of Pharaoh, and yet, stiff-necked generation that ye are, ye stay from the banquet and then complain of hunger! “Shall there be no punishment for this obduracy?” asks kindly Mother Church, her eyes red with weeping for the hard-heartedness of her children. “Shall there be no remedy?” she sobs, wringing her hands. Whereupon, the spotless maiden Law—that Amazonian virgin, eldest child of violated Justice—answers, “Fifteen Shillings!”
We are indebted to Lord BROUGHAM for this new instance of the stubbornness of the poor—for this new revelation of the pious vengeance of offended law. A few nights since his lordship, in a motion touching prison discipline, stated that “a man had been confined for ten weeks, having been fined a shilling, and fourteen shillings costs, which he did not pay, because he was absent one Sunday from church!”
Who can doubt, that from the moment John Jones—(the reader may christen the offender as he pleases)—was discharged, he became a most pious, church-going Christian? He had been ten Sundays in prison, be it remembered; and had therefore heard at least ten sermons. He crossed the prison threshold a new-made man; and wending towards his happy home, had in his face—so lately smirched with shameless vice—such lustrous glory, that even his dearest creditors failed to recognise him!
Beautiful is the village church of Phariseefield! Beautiful is its antiquity—beautiful its porch, thronged with white-headed men and ruddy little ones! Beautiful the graves, sown with immortal seed, clustering round the building! Beautiful the vicar’s horses—the vicar himself preaches to-day,—and very beautiful indeed, the faces, ay, and the bonnets, too, of the vicar’s daughters! Beautiful the sound of the bell that summons the lowly Christian to cast aside the pomps and vanities of the world, and to stand for a time in utter nakedness of heart before his Maker,—and very beautiful the silk stockings of the Dowager Lady Canaan’s footman, who carrieth with Sabbath humility his Lady’s books to Church! Yet all this beauty is as deformity to the new-born loveliness of John Jones; who, on the furthermost seat—far from the vain convenience of pew and velvet hassock—sits, and inwardly blesses the one shilling and fourteen shillings costs, that with more than fifteen-horse power have drawn him from the iniquities of the Jerry-shop and hustle-farthing,—to feed upon the manna dropping from the lips of the Reverend Doctor FAT! There sits John Jones, late drunkard, poacher, reprobate; but now, fined into Christian goodness—made a very saint, according to Act of Parliament!