[87273] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
Never Pay Full Price for Printer Ink Again!
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Printer Ink)
Tue Aug 23 11:47:42 2016
Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2016 11:39:48 -0400
From: "Printer Ink" <printer-ink@majoritis.com>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
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<title>Never Pay Full Price for Printer Ink Again!</title>=20
<h1>Never Pay Full Price for Printer Ink Again!</h1>=20
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<p>You were among the first, some years ago, to expatiate on the vicious=
addiction of the lower classes of society to Sunday excursions; and were t=
hus instrumental in calling forth occasional demonstrations of those extrem=
e opinions on the subject, which are very generally received with derision,=
if not with contempt. Your elevated station, my Lord, affords you countles=
s opportunities of increasing the comforts and pleasures of the humbler cla=
sses of society--not by the expenditure of the smallest portion of your pri=
ncely income, but by merely sanctioning with the influence of your example,=
their harmless pastimes, and innocent recreations. That your Lordship woul=
d ever have contemplated Sunday recreations with so much horror, if you had=
been at all acquainted with the wants and necessities of the people who in=
dulged in them, I cannot imagine possible. That a Prelate of your elevated =
rank has the faintest conception of the extent of those wants, and the natu=
re of those necessities, I do not believe. For these reasons, I venture to =
address this little Pamphlet to your Lordship' s consideration. I am quite =
conscious that the outlines I have drawn, afford but a very imperfect descr=
iption of the feelings they are intended to illustrate; but I claim for the=
m one merit--their truth and freedom from exaggeration. I may have fallen s=
hort of the mark, but I have never overshot it: and while I have pointed ou=
t what appears to me, to be injustice on the part of others, I hope I have =
carefully abstained from committing it myself. I am, My Lord, Your Lordship=
' s most obedient, Humble Servant, TIMOTHY SPARKS. June, 1836. CHAPTER I--A=
S IT IS There are few things from which I derive greater pleasure, than wal=
king through some of the principal streets of London on a fine Sunday, in s=
ummer, and watching the cheerful faces of the lively groups with which they=
are thronged. There is something, to my eyes at least, exceedingly pleasin=
g in the general desire evinced by the humbler classes of society, to appea=
r neat and clean on this their only holiday. There are many grave old perso=
ns, I know, who shake their heads with an air of profound wisdom, and tell =
you that poor people dress too well now-a-days; that when they were childre=
n, folks knew their stations in life better; that you may depend upon it, n=
o good will come of this sort of thing in the end,--and so forth: but I fan=
cy I can discern in the fine bonnet of the working-man' s wife, or the feat=
her-bedizened hat of his child, no inconsiderable evidence of good feeling =
on the part of the man himself, and an affectionate desire to expend the fe=
w shillings he can spare from his week' s wages, in improving the appearanc=
e and adding to the happiness of those who are nearest and dearest to him. =
This may be a very heinous and unbecoming degree of vanity, perhaps, and th=
e money might possibly be applied to better uses; it must not be forgotten,=
however, that it might very easily be devoted to worse: and if two or thre=
e faces can be rendered happy and contented, by a trifling improvement of o=
utward appearance, I cannot help thinking that the object is very cheaply p=
urchased, even at the expense of a smart gown, or a gaudy riband. There is =
a great deal of very unnecessary cant about the over- dressing of the commo=
n people. There is not a manufacturer or tradesman in existence, who would =
not employ a man who takes a reasonable degree of pride in the appearance o=
f himself and those about him, in preference to a sullen, slovenly fellow, =
who works doggedly on, regardless of his own clothing and that of his wife =
and children, and seeming to take pleasure or pride in nothing. The pampere=
d aristocrat, whose life is one continued round of licentious pleasures and=
sensual gratifications; or the gloomy enthusiast, who detests the cheerful=
amusements he can never enjoy, and envies the healthy feelings he can neve=
r know, and who would put down the one and suppress the other, until he mad=
e the minds of his fellow-beings as besotted and distorted as his own; --ne=
ither of these men can by possibility form an adequate notion of what Sunda=
y really is to those whose lives are spent in sedentary or laborious occupa=
tions, and who are accustomed to look forward to it through their whole exi=
stence, as their only day of rest from toil, and innocent enjoyment. The su=
n that rises over the quiet streets of London on a bright Sunday morning, s=
hines till his setting, on gay and happy faces. Here and there, so early as=
six o' clock, a young man and woman in their best attire, may be seen hurr=
ying along on their way to the house of some acquaintance, who is included =
in their scheme of pleasure for the day; from whence, after stopping to tak=
e " a bit of breakfast," they sally forth, accompanied by several=
old people, and a whole crowd of young ones, bearing large hand-baskets fu=
ll of provisions, and Belcher handkerchiefs done up in bundles, with the ne=
ck of a bottle sticking out at the top, and closely-packed apples bulging o=
ut at the sides,--and away they hurry along the streets leading to the stea=
m-packet wharfs, which are already plentifully sprinkled with parties bound=
for the same destination. Their good humour and delight know no bounds--fo=
r it is a delightful morning, all blue over head, and nothing like a cloud =
in the whole sky; and even the air of the river at London Bridge is somethi=
ng to them, shut up as they have been, all the week, in close streets and h=
eated rooms. There are dozens of steamers to all sorts of places- -Gravesen=
d, Greenwich, and Richmond; and such numbers of people, that when you have =
once sat down on the deck, it is all but a moral impossibility to get up ag=
ain--to say nothing of walking about, which is entirely out of the question=
Away they go, joking and laughing, and eating and drinking, and admiring =
everything they see, and pleased with everything they hear, to climb Windmi=
ll Hill, and catch a glimpse of the rich corn-fields and beautiful orchards=
of Kent; or to stroll among the fine old trees of Greenwich Park, and surv=
ey the wonders of Shooter' s Hill and Lady James' s Folly; or to glide past=
the beautiful meadows of Twickenham and Richmond, and to gaze with a delig=
ht which only people like them can know, on every lovely object in the fair=
prospect around. Boat follows boat, and coach succeeds coach, for the next=
three hours; but all are filled, and all with the same kind of people--nea=
t and clean, cheerful and contented. They reach their places of destination=
, and the taverns are crowded; but there is no drunkenness or brawling, for=
the class of men who commit the enormity of making Sunday excursions, take=
their families with them: and this in itself would be a check upon them, e=
ven if they were inclined to dissipation, which they really are not. Boiste=
rous their mirth may be, for they have all the excitement of feeling that f=
resh air and green fields can impart to the dwellers in crowded cities, but=
it is innocent and harmless. The glass is circulated, and the joke goes ro=
und; but the one is free from excess, and the other from offence; and nothi=
ng but good humour and hilarity prevail. In streets like Holborn and Totten=
ham Court Road, which form the central market of a large neighbourhood, inh=
abited by a vast number of mechanics and poor people, a few shops are open =
at an early hour of the morning; and a very poor man, with a thin and sickl=
y woman by his side, may be seen with their little basket in hand, purchasi=
ng the scanty quantity of necessaries they can afford, which the time at wh=
ich the man receives his wages, or his having a good deal of work to do, or=
the woman' s having been out charing till a late hour, prevented their pro=
curing over-night. The coffee-shops too, at which clerks and young men empl=
oyed in counting-houses can procure their breakfasts, are also open. This c=
lass comprises, in a place like London, an enormous number of people, whose=
limited means prevent their engaging for their lodgings any other apartmen=
t than a bedroom, and who have consequently no alternative but to take thei=
r breakfasts at a coffee-shop, or go without it altogether. All these place=
s, however, are quickly closed; and by the time the church bells begin to r=
ing, all appearance of traffic has ceased. And then, what are the signs of =
immorality that meet the eye? Churches are well filled, and Dissenters' cha=
pels are crowded to suffocation. There is no preaching to empty benches, wh=
ile the drunken and dissolute populace run riot in the streets. Here is a f=
ashionable church, where the service commences at a late hour, for the acco=
mmodation of such members of the congregation-- and they are not a few--as =
may happen to have lingered at the Opera far into the morning of the Sabbat=
h; an excellent contrivance for poising the balance between God and Mammon,=
and illustrating the ease with which a man' s duties to both, may be accom=
modated and adjusted. How the carriages rattle up, and deposit their richly=
- dressed burdens beneath the lofty portico! The powdered footmen glide alo=
ng the aisle, place the richly-bound prayer-books on the pew desks, slam th=
e doors, and hurry away, leaving the fashionable members of the congregatio=
n to inspect each other through their glasses, and to dazzle and glitter in=
the eyes of the few shabby people in the free seats. The organ peals forth=
, the hired singers commence a short hymn, and the congregation condescendi=
ngly rise, stare about them, and converse in whispers. The clergyman enters=
the reading-desk,--a young man of noble family and elegant demeanour, noto=
rious at Cambridge for his knowledge of horse-flesh and dancers, and celebr=
ated at Eton for his hopeless stupidity. The service commences. Mark the so=
ft voice in which he reads, and the impressive manner in which he applies h=
is white hand, studded with brilliants, to his perfumed hair. Observe the g=
raceful emphasis with which he offers up the prayers for the King, the Roya=
l Family, and all the Nobility; and the nonchalance with which he hurries o=
ver the more uncomfortable portions of the service, the seventh commandment=
for instance, with a studied regard for the taste and feeling of his audit=
ors, only to be equalled by that displayed by the sleek divine who succeeds=
him, who murmurs, in a voice kept down by rich feeding, most comfortable d=
octrines for exactly twelve minutes, and then arrives at the anxiously expe=
cted ' Now to God,' which is the signal for the dismissal of the congregati=
on. The organ is again heard; those who have been asleep wake up, and those=
who have kept awake, smile and seem greatly relieved; bows and congratulat=
ions are exchanged, the livery servants are all bustle and commotion, bang =
go the steps, up jump the footmen, and off rattle the carriages: the inmate=
s discoursing on the dresses of the congregation, and congratulating themse=
lves on having set so excellent an example to the community in general, and=
Sunday-pleasurers in particular. Enter a less orthodox place of religious =
worship, and observe the contrast. A small close chapel with a white-washed=
wall, and plain deal pews and pulpit, contains a closely-packed congregati=
on, as different in dress, as they are opposed in manner, to that we have j=
ust quitted. The hymn is sung--not by paid singers, but by the whole assemb=
ly at the loudest pitch of their voices, unaccompanied by any musical instr=
ument, the words being given out, two lines at a time, by the clerk. There =
is something in the sonorous quavering of the harsh voices, in the lank and=
hollow faces of the men, and the sour solemnity of the women, which bespea=
ks this a strong-hold of intolerant zeal and ignorant enthusiasm. The preac=
her enters the pulpit. He is a coarse, hard-faced man of forbidding aspect,=
clad in rusty black, and bearing in his hand a small plain Bible from whic=
h he selects some passage for his text, while the hymn is concluding. The c=
ongregation fall upon their knees, and are hushed into profound stillness a=
s he delivers an extempore prayer, in which he calls upon the Sacred Founde=
r of the Christian faith to bless his ministry, in terms of disgusting and =
impious familiarity not to be described. He begins his oration in a drawlin=
g tone, and his hearers listen with silent attention. He grows warmer as he=
proceeds with his subject, and his gesticulation becomes proportionately v=
iolent. He clenches his fists, beats the book upon the desk before him, and=
swings his arms wildly about his head. The congregation murmur their acqui=
escence in his doctrines: and a short groan, occasionally bears testimony t=
o the moving nature of his eloquence. Encouraged by these symptoms of appro=
val, and working himself up to a pitch of enthusiasm amounting almost to fr=
enzy, he denounces sabbath-breakers with the direst vengeance of offended H=
eaven. He stretches his body half out of the pulpit, thrusts forth his arms=
with frantic gestures, and blasphemously calls upon The Deity to visit wit=
h eternal torments, those who turn aside from the word, as interpreted and =
preached by--himself. A low moaning is heard, the women rock their bodies t=
o and fro, and wring their hands; the preacher' s fervour increases, the pe=
rspiration starts upon his brow, his face is flushed, and he clenches his h=
ands convulsively, as he draws a hideous and appalling picture of the horro=
rs preparing for the wicked in a future state. A great excitement is visibl=
e among his hearers, a scream is heard, and some young girl falls senseless=
on the floor. There is a momentary rustle, but it is only for a moment--al=
l eyes are turned towards the preacher. He pauses, passes his handkerchief =
across his face, and looks complacently round. His voice resumes its natura=
l tone, as with mock humility he offers up a thanksgiving for having been s=
uccessful in his efforts, and having been permitted to rescue one sinner fr=
om the path of evil. He sinks back into his seat, exhausted with the violen=
ce of his ravings; the girl is removed, a hymn is sung, a petition for some=
measure for securing the better observance of the Sabbath, which has been =
prepared by the good man, is read; and his worshipping admirers struggle wh=
o shall be the first to sign it. But the morning service has concluded, and=
the streets are again crowded with people. Long rows of cleanly-dressed ch=
arity children, preceded by a portly beadle and a withered schoolmaster, ar=
e returning to their welcome dinner; and it is evident, from the number of =
men with beer-trays who are running from house to house, that no inconsider=
able portion of the population are about to take theirs at this early hour.=
The bakers' shops in the humbler suburbs especially, are filled with men, =
women, and children, each anxiously waiting for the Sunday dinner. Look at =
the group of children who surround that working man who has just emerged fr=
om the baker' s shop at the corner of the street, with the reeking dish, in=
which a diminutive joint of mutton simmers above a vast heap of half-brown=
ed potatoes. How the young rogues clap their hands, and dance round their f=
ather, for very joy at the prospect of the feast: and how anxiously the you=
ngest and chubbiest of the lot, lingers on tiptoe by his side, trying to ge=
t a peep into the interior of the dish. They turn up the street, and the ch=
ubby- faced boy trots on as fast as his little legs will carry him, to hera=
ld the approach of the dinner to ' Mother' who is standing with a baby in h=
er arms on the doorstep, and who seems almost as pleased with the whole sce=
ne as the children themselves; whereupon ' baby' not precisely understandin=
g the importance of the business in hand, but clearly perceiving that it is=
something unusually lively, kicks and crows most lustily, to the unspeakab=
le delight of all the children and both the parents: and the dinner is born=
e into the house amidst a shouting of small voices, and jumping of fat legs=
, which would fill Sir Andrew Agnew with astonishment; as well it might, se=
eing that Baronets, generally speaking, eat pretty comfortable dinners all =
the week through, and cannot be expected to understand what people feel, wh=
o only have a meat dinner on one day out of every seven.</p>=20
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