What is meant by the word 'necessity' in this clause? Simply this - that the rich man shall be at liberty to make use of all the splendid luxuries he has collected around him, on any day in the week, because habit and custom have rendered them 'necessary' to his easy existence; but that the poor man who saves his money to provide some little pleasure for himself and family at lengthened intervals, shall not be permitted to enjoy it.It is not 'necessary' to him:- Heaven knows, he very often goes long enough without it.This is the plain English of the clause.The carriage and pair of horses, the coachman, the footman, the helper, and the groom, are 'necessary' on Sundays, as on other days, to the bishop and the nobleman; but the hackney-coach, the hired gig, or the taxed cart, cannot possibly be 'necessary' to the working-man on Sunday, for he has it not at other times.The sumptuous dinner and the rich wines, are 'necessaries' to a great man in his own mansion: but the pint of beer and the plate of meat, degrade the national character in an eating-house.
Such is the bill for promoting the true and sincere worship of God according to his Holy Will, and for protecting every class of society against being required to sacrifice their health and comfort on the Sabbath.Instances in which its operation would be as unjust as it would be absurd, might be multiplied to an endless amount; but it is sufficient to place its leading provisions before the reader.In doing so, I have purposely abstained from drawing upon the imagination for possible cases; the provisions to which Ihave referred, stand in so many words upon the bill as printed by order of the House of Commons; and they can neither be disowned, nor explained away.
Let us suppose such a bill as this, to have actually passed both branches of the legislature; to have received the royal assent; and to have come into operation.Imagine its effect in a great city like London.
Sunday comes, and brings with it a day of general gloom and austerity.The man who has been toiling hard all the week, has been looking towards the Sabbath, not as to a day of rest from labour, and healthy recreation, but as one of grievous tyranny and grinding oppression.The day which his Maker intended as a blessing, man has converted into a curse.Instead of being hailed by him as his period of relaxation, he finds it remarkable only as depriving him of every comfort and enjoyment.He has many children about him, all sent into the world at an early age, to struggle for a livelihood; one is kept in a warehouse all day, with an interval of rest too short to enable him to reach home, another walks four or five miles to his employment at the docks, a third earns a few shillings weekly, as an errand boy, or office messenger; and the employment of the man himself, detains him at some distance from his home from morning till night.Sunday is the only day on which they could all meet together, and enjoy a homely meal in social comfort; and now they sit down to a cold and cheerless dinner: the pious guardians of the man's salvation having, in their regard for the welfare of his precious soul, shut up the bakers' shops.The fire blazes high in the kitchen chimney of these well-fed hypocrites, and the rich steams of the savoury dinner scent the air.What care they to be told that this class of men have neither a place to cook in - nor means to bear the expense, if they had?
Look into your churches - diminished congregations, and scanty attendance.People have grown sullen and obstinate, and are becoming disgusted with the faith which condemns them to such a day as this, once in every seven.And as you cannot make people religious by Act of Parliament, or force them to church by constables, they display their feeling by staying away.
Turn into the streets, and mark the rigid gloom that reigns over everything around.The roads are empty, the fields are deserted, the houses of entertainment are closed.Groups of filthy and discontented-looking men, are idling about at the street corners, or sleeping in the sun; but there are no decently-dressed people of the poorer class, passing to and fro.Where should they walk to?
It would take them an hour, at least, to get into the fields, and when they reached them, they could procure neither bite nor sup, without the informer and the penalty.Now and then, a carriage rolls smoothly on, or a well-mounted horseman, followed by a liveried attendant, canters by; but with these exceptions, all is as melancholy and quiet as if a pestilence had fallen on the city.
