A SUNDAY IN LONDON.*
* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.
IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the countryand its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but where is itssacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of thatgreat Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic monster is charmedinto repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at anend. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories areextinguished, and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke,pours down a sober yellow radiance into the quiet streets. Thefew pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxiouscountenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from thewrinkles of business and care; they have put on their Sunday looks andSunday manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind aswell as in person.
And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons theirseveral flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the familyof the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance; then thecitizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters,with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of theirpocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window,admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod andsmile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventurean alderman or a sheriff, and now the patter of many feet announces itprocession of charity scholars in uniforms of antique cut, and each witha prayer-book under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage hasceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks are foldedin ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowdedcity, 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 andvibrating through the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting ofthe choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I beenmore sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music than when Ihave heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmostrecesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from allthe sordid pollutions of the week, and bearing the poor world-worn soulon a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven.
The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with thecongregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse intosilence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman,is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for social enjoymentat the board. Members of the family can now gather together, who areseparated by the laborious occupations of the week. A school-boy may bepermitted on that day to come to the paternal home; an old friend ofthe family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells overhis well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-knownjokes.
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its lesions to breathe thefresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs.Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of aLondon citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful inbeholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thusto come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom ofnature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast; and theywho first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-groundswhich surround this huge metropolis have done at least as much forits health and morality as if they had expended the amount of cost inhospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 15