The Victoria continues to kill “James Dawson,” in spite of our prediction. The bills, however, promise that he shall die outright on Monday next, and a happy release it will be. The proprietor of “Sadler’s Wells” is making most spirited efforts to attract play-goers to the Islington side of the New River, by a return to the legitimate drama of his theatre, viz.—real water; while his box check-taker has kept one important integer of the public away; namely, that singular plural we—by impertinence for which we have exhausted all patience without obtaining redress.
There are, we hear, other theatres open in London, one called the “City of London,” somewhere near Shoreditch; another in Whitechapel, both terrae incognitae to us. The proprietors of these have handsomely presented us with free admissions. We beg them to accept our thanks for their courtesy; but are sorry we cannot avail ourselves of it till they add the obligation of providing us with guides.
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THE CORN LAWS AND CHRISTIANITY.
Doctor Chalmers refused to attend the synod of Clergymen gathered together to consider the relative value of the Big and Little Loaf, on the ground that the reverend gentlemen were beginning their work at the wrong end. Wages will go up with Christianity, says the Doctor; cheap corn will follow the dissemination of cheap Bibles. “I know of no other road for the indefinite advancement of the working classes to a far better remuneration, and, of course, a far more liberal maintenance, in return for their toils, than they have ever yet enjoyed—it is a universal Christian education.” Such are the words of Doctor CHALMERS.
We perfectly agree with the reverend doctor. Instead of shipping Missionaries to Africa, let us keep those Christian sages at home for the instruction of the English Aristocracy. When we consider the benighted condition of the elegant savages of the western squares,—when we reflect upon the dreadful scepticism abounding in Park-lane, May-fair, Portland-place and its vicinity,—when we contemplate the abominable idols which these unhappy natives worship in their ignorance,—when we know that every thought, every act of their misspent life is dedicated to a false religion, when they make hourly and daily sacrifice to that brazen serpent,
when they offer up the poor man’s sweat to the abomination,—when they lay before it the crippled child of the factory,—when they take from life its bloom and dignity, and degrading human nature to mere brute breathing, make offering of its wretchedness as the most savoury morsel to the perpetual craving of their insatiate god,—when we consider all the “manifold sins and wickednesses” of the barbarians in purple and fine linen, of those pampered savages “whose eyes are red with wine and whose teeth white with milk,”—we