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!

If Mother Church, with the rods of spikenard which the law hath benevolently placed in her hands, will but whip her truant children to their Sunday seats,—­will only consent to draw them through the bars of a prison to their Sabbath sittings,—­will teach them the real value of Christianity, it being according to her own estimate—­with the expenses—­exactly fifteen shillings,—­sure we are, that Radicalism and Chartism, and all the many foul pustules that, in the conviction of Holy Church, are at this moment poisoning and enervating the social body, will disappear beneath the precious ointment always at her touch.

When we consider the many and impartial blessings scattered upon the poor of England—­when in fact we consider the beautiful justice pervading our whole social intercourse—­when we reflect upon the spirit of good-will and sincerity that operates on the hearts of the powerful few for the comfort and happiness of the helpless million,—­we are almost aghast at the infidelity of poverty, forgetting in our momentary indignation, that poverty must necessarily combine within itself every species of infamy.