KENILWORTH CHURCH AND KENILWORTH CASTLE.
THERE has reached Mr. Punch a very good-humoured letter from a Reverend gentleman suggesting to him the expediency of subscribing £10 or £20 towards the endowment of a new church at Kenilworth, in order to show that he, Mr. Punch, is not opposed to the Christian observance of Sunday, which might, the worthy clergyman seems to think, be inferred from his objection to the Jewish observance of it.
The idea of a church at Kenilworth is peculiarly happy. On Sundays it might be a counter-attraction to the Castle. Success to the exertions of the minister that is to preach in it to render it such!
Our clerical correspondent's suggestion is ingenious; it merits attention: it shall be attended to in good time.
If Mr. Punch's ideas—and circulation—were narrow, he might plead that the church at Kenilworth is not in his own parish. But that would be an invalid as well as a sneaking excuse for parsimony. The parish of Punch is the world.
When all the property appertaining to the Established Church has been so distributed among the clergy as to maintain every one of them, bishops and all, in a style of apostolical competence, and when the whole of the surplus thus created shall have been applied to the endowment of new churches, then, if any more money is wanted for that purpose, Mr. Punch will be most happy to contribute as much as ever he is able; and his munificence shall, in the very first place, effuse itself upon the new church at Kenilworth.
STRIKING CIRCUMSTANCES.
Really John Bull may almost be described as a maniac with lucid intervals. He appears to be always suffering under some form of mania or other. A few years ago it was the Railway Mania—a very dangerous phrenzy. Then from time to time occurs a Poultry Mania, or one of the similar and milder forms of insanity. The mania now prevailing is one which, if not attended to, may perhaps prove troublesome. This is the Striking Mania. Everybody is Striking. The other day it was the cabmen; now it is the Dockyard labourers; the policemen, even, have struck and thrown down their staves. Our mechanics have so far become machines, that, like clocks, as clocks ought to be, they are all striking together.