* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.
IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the country
and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but where is its
sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that
great Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic monster is charmed
into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an
end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are
extinguished, and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke,
pours down a sober yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The
few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious
countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the
wrinkles of business and care; they have put on their Sunday looks and
Sunday manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as
well as in person.
And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons their
several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family
of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance; then the
citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters,
with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of their
pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window,
admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and
smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventure
an alderman or a sheriff, and now the patter of many feet announces it
procession of charity scholars in uniforms of antique cut, and each with
a prayer-book under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage has
ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks are folded
in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded
city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd’s dog,
round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed,
but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of
the choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been
more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music than when I
have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost
recesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all
the sordid pollutions of the week, and bearing the poor world-worn soul
on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven.
The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with the
congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse into
silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman,
is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment
at the board. Members of the family can now gather together, who are
separated by the laborious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be
permitted on that day to come to the paternal home; an old friend of
the family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over
his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known
jokes.
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its lesions to breathe the
fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs.
Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a
London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus
to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of
nature. He is like a child restored to the mother’s breast; and they
who first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds
which surround this huge metropolis have done at least as much for
its health and morality as if they had expended the amount of cost in
hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.