SUNDAY BILLS.
We regret to see that a well-meaning gentleman of the name of Peter, is trying to get up a second edition of the exploded Agnew absurdity. Whatever the object of these efforts may be, it is clear that nothing can more effectually tend to array the country in two classes against each other,—the one of Atheists and Liberals, and the other of Puritans and Fanatics.
How can a gentleman of honour, like Sir Andrew Agnew, prevail upon himself—we are quite sure he is too independent to permit any other person to prevail upon him—to declare in the House of Commons that all classes of operatives are anxious for the closest restrictions on the Sabbath which the House can enforce? It is not the case. As far as working goes, the operatives are at this moment entirely protected; no master can compel his journeymen to work on Sunday; and as for menial servants, they are excepted out of the bill.
[See Hook's travestie on [another page].]
Does Sir Andrew Agnew believe, or wish anybody else to believe, that the operatives want to be "cribbed, cabined, and confined" on a Sunday, debarred from their excursions to tea-gardens, their little voyages upon the river, their social pipes and ale, or to have their wives and sweethearts mulcted of their cakes and tea upon the only day in the week in which they can enjoy them? Does he really mean seriously to say that hard-working people, who for six consecutive days have been shut up to labour and toil, in heated rooms, in factories, or in gas-lit workshops, desire that they may be hindered from breathing the pure air on the seventh?
And what to the poor—or, indeed, to the rich—is an excursion without refreshment—without the enjoyment of the Sunday's dinner, the weekly festival at which his family enjoy his society, and in his society the treat of something "good to eat?" Why may not these relations, if they prefer good air to bad, go to those "Ordinaries on Sundays at two o'clock," which may be seen announced on every sign-board round London? or why, if they prefer it, may they not travel thither in chaises or other carriages, if they can afford it? Whether this is sinful or not, Messrs. Agnew and Peter may perhaps decide; but of this we are sure, that the operatives, except the already benighted Puritan Radicals, must be, and are opposed, heart and soul, to the monstrous restrictions which a couple of very small men are endeavouring to bring them under, because they think it right, and good, and wise.
The beneficial effects of the measure upon society may be guessed from the following dialogue between Snip, a tailor, and Snob, a shoemaker, living in the same house, each having a wife—one having a child.—(Time, Sunday morning.)
Snip. Vell, Snob, arn't you shaved? Vy, the bells is a-going for Church—ye von't be ready in time.
Snob. Church—bless your heart, I can't go to church to-day—the bill's come into play.
Snip. Ah! I know that to my cost.
Snob. How can I go to church? Ve used to send our bit of wittels to the bakus, and then I and Sal used to go to church, and so give Jenny Walker sixpence to mind the babby till we come back; then arter dinner Sal and I and the babby used to go to Chalk Farm, as reglar as clockwork, every blessed Sunday. She had a cup of the best bohea, with milk hot from the cow—I smoked my pipe and had a pint of ale. Little Jenny used to go to church in the arternoon, and come and jine us, and so help bring babby back. Now we marn't get the things baked at the bakus, and Jenny marn't come and earn sixpence by looking arter the babby—so Sal has to cook the wittels, and I have to mind the child—so there's no church for us.
Snip. My missus says she won't do no work Sundays, cause she's afeard of her life of Bill Byers—so we avn't got a morsel of grub for dinner, and neither of us knows where to get none—I won't go to church with this here beard on, six days long; and Jim, him as is the barber over the way, won't shave me for fear of the five pound penalty, so I shall stop where I is.
Snob. Come along into our place—my Sal isn't so partic'lar—she's read the hact itself, and swears she's a hexception—we got a line of mutton, vith the kidney in it, and a peck of tatys—come along wi' your old woman, and let's be jolly.
Snip. Jolly! Hark, Mr. S——, there's one on 'em over the way—don't ye know 'em?—that's one o' Byers's boys—if he hears you laugh to-day, two-pun-ten for you.
Snob. Peter's pence—eh?—well, if we maint speak of a Sunday in the street, let's come in—ours, you know, is a back room, up two pair—they can't hear us there—come along—I say, what shall we have to drink?
Snip. There's nothing but vater for us as can't afford vine—public-houses is shut—no sarving Sabbath-day.
Snob. Vell, never mind—ve'll try and cheat the old un. There are cunninger dogs than the law-makers, and them is the law-breakers. Go and ask missus to come and join us.
Snip. Oh, she'll come, and jump too; and I tells ye what—as we know'd we could not have no heavy wet to-day, she got a couple of bottles of Jacky, as will nourish us through the arternoon.
Snob. So it will, Bill; and we won't stir out at all. If we can't have a drop o' short, or a swig o' heavy among the rurals in the harbours—what's the country to us, we can't live upon hair?
Snip. No, not by no means. If I could but get my chin scraped, I'd try and make myself comfortable.
Snob. Is barber Jem at home?
Snip. Yes, shut up in his back parlour a-making wigs, where nobody can see him.
Snob. I tell ye vot, let's ax him to eat a bit of our mutton. He han't got nobody to cook for him, poor buffer, so we'll ax him over; and then if he brings his soap and a kipple of razors in his vestcoat pockets, he can shave us two, just by way of amusement, while Sal's getting the line ready.
Snip. Amusement!—that's quite gone out,—there's my poor missus, who used to get from eighteen to four-and-twenty shillings a-week a-manty making in Crambo Alley, can't get a stitch o' work to do—nobody wears nothing now—they used only to put on their bits of things onest a-week, to show 'em like, and now they marnt go out a-pleasuring o' Sundays, they buys nothing.
Snob. Vell, come along up stairs, we'll have a day on it. please the pigs; your two bottles of Jacky will last us till bed-time, and I'll toss you up who pays for both—I'm not going to swelter out in the sun to walk.
Snip. Nor I—I'll be with you in a twinkling, and when we have got my missus and barber Jem, we'll just lock the door, and drink confusion to the reformers.
For the sequel we have not room in detail. Snip, Snob, and barber Jem, ensconced in their fast-hold, pass the Sabbath with the females, in hidden intoxication and carefully-concealed profligacy—drunkenness progresses. Barber Jem contributes from his store over the way to the replenishment of the gin-bottle. Jealousy grows out of familiarity: the women tear each other's caps, and scratch each other's faces. Snob knocks Snip over the balusters, and barber Jem is taken to the station-house dead-drunk.
In better society things will grow even worse. The mind restricted to drudgery through the week must have relaxation at the end of it; and the tradesmen and clerks, and their ladies, sweethearts, and wives, have a right, in this Christian and civilized country, to share the innocent pleasures of the male part of the creation on the only day upon which they can properly enjoy them. What can be more innocent than going to Richmond, walking upon the hill, or paddling about by the water? What more agreeable or healthy than steaming to Gravesend (where the animosity of the people towards the aristocracy has recently been evinced by their conduct towards the Pier)? What more natural than to eat and drink when arrived there?—No; that is contrary to the law. What! of nature or nations!—No; of Agnew and of Peter. Surely if young ladies are satisfied with soles and eels, and ducks and peas, and sage and onions, and port wine and punch, and such things as these, all eaten fairly and above-board at open windows or in the open air, such persons as Peter and Agnew should rejoice thereat. Confine them in London, deny them harmless gaiety, pen them up with their lovers and friends, tell them they must not stir out, and, like the Snips and Snobs of inferior life, they will turn their thoughts into other channels, and soles and eels, and ducks and peas, will shortly sink in their estimation, only, however, to give place to a catalogue of other things too numerous to mention in the short space of an advertisement.
Oh, if these Agnews and Peters would but be content to take man as God has been pleased to make him, and allow him the free agency with which the Divinity has invested him, how much more wisely would they act! If they themselves believe that piety consists in eating cold meat on Sundays, in avoiding carriages, in eschewing all sorts of social conversation; if they see perdition in a plum-bun, and utter destruction in a glass of mild ale, let them henceforth live on frigid sheep, moan, mump, and be miserable, and fast, and grieve, in direct opposition to the spirit and character of Christians, observing the Protestant Sunday; but do not let them meddle with matters which cannot concern them, and by their success in which they would infallibly corrupt the body of the people, and endanger the safety of the commonwealth.