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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
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.
Washington Irving's short story: A Sunday in London
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