at our ease, the dressed dolls of the place, with little more in our heads, most of us, than may be contained inside of a wig of flax and a nose of wax; stuck up by these poor little prentices, clerks, and orange sucking mobility, Kit, and his mother, and the baby—behind us, in the chief places of this our evening synagogue. What for? ’They did not stick you up,' say you, ’you paid for your stalls with your own money. Where did you get your money? Some of you—if any Reverend gentlemen, as I hope, are among us,—by selling the Gospel; others by selling Justice; others by selling their Blood—(and no man has any right to sell aught of these three things, any more than a woman her body,)—the rest, if not by swindling, by simple taxation of the labour of the shilling gallery,—or of the yet poorer or better persons who have not so much, or will not spend so much, as the shilling to get there? How else should you, or could you, get your money,—simpletons?
Not that it is essentially your fault, poor feathered moths,—any more than the dead shoemaker's. That blasphemous blockheadism of Mr. Greg's,[1] and the like of him, that you can swill salvation into other people's bodies out of your own champagne-bottles, is the main root of all your national miseries. Indeed you are willing enough to believe that devil's-gospel, you rich ones; or
- ↑ Quoted in last Fors, p. 341, lines 18-22, from ’Contemporary Review.’ Observe that it is blasphemy, definitely and calmly uttered, first against Nature, and secondly against Christ.
