THE PRESS.
A CHRISTMAS SERMON THETEXT, CHARITY.
MORNING JOURNAL—Christmas comes at the time of the year when the calls on our charity, always sufficiently pressing, have the additional force, derived from the shivering limbs, as well as unfed sides, of those that make them. Some very sober people, who have comfortable dinners, and com- fortable wines, and everything else comfortable, every day of the week, and all the weeks of the year, are in the habit of exclaiming loudly against the feasts during the last week of those who live but sparely all the rest. To us, on the contrary, the practice, although it may, in particular instances, exceed the limits of propriety, seems, on the whole, most benevolently contrived. Poverty, but more especially its concomitant, hard fare, is a sad locker-up of time kindlier feelings of humanity. We are told when we have a suit to press, to avoid waiting on him who has to grant it, until he have dined. If the dinner be good, so much the more readily may we expect the prayer to be heard. In the same way the calls of the poor and the starving are ev:1- most likely to be listened to when those to whom they call have been indulging in the good things of this life. Now, to come to the object of our address. Days are short, work is difficult to be had, and miserably remunerated when had ; many are idle compulsorily—many are pennyless—many are sick in this
great metropolis. In Spitalfields and elsewhere, instead of blithe faces, and cheerful greetings, and smoking tables, there is little else than looks of dis- comfort for the present, and of despair for the future. While, then, those on whom fortune smiles are enjoying themselves in this season of indulgence, we would direct their thoughts to those who have no means of enjoyment, not to mar their pleasure, but to heighten it. A little spared out of the super- fluities of the wealthy were sufficient to feed the poor. We shall not appeal to the highest authority, for we have said we do not wish to be more grave than those whom we address. We shall content ourselves with telling them —and it is a truth above all dispute—that the best digester of roast beef and plum-pudding, better than all the dyspeptic pilis and powders that ever quackery compounded and folly swallowed, is the sight of a human face made cheerful by our bounty.
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