A SUNDAY IN LONDON*
by Washington Irving
* Part of a sketch omitted in the previous editions.
IN A preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in thecountry, and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but whereis its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the veryheart of that great Babel, London? On this sacred day, the giganticmonster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle ofthe week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges andmanufactories are extinguished; and the sun, no longer obscured bymurky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into thequiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurryingforward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their browsare smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care; they have puton their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sundayclothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person.
And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summonstheir several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion thefamily of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance;then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-updaughters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the foldsof their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from thewindow, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, anod and smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she hasassisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city,peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of many feetannounces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antiquecut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriagehas ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks arefolded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners ofthe crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like theshepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of theorgan, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes and courts; andthe sweet chanting of the choir ****** them resound with melody andpraise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect ofchurch music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like ariver of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis,elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of theweek; and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphantharmony to heaven.
The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive withthe congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapseinto silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the citytradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure forsocial enjoyment at the board. Members of the family can now gathertogether, who are separated by the laborious occupations of theweek. A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to thepaternal home; an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sundayseat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoicesyoung and old with his well-known jokes.
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathethe fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and ruralenvirons. Satirists may say what they please about the ruralenjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is somethingdelightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dustycity enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon thegreen bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother'sbreast; and they who first spread out these noble parks andmagnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge metropolis, havedone at least as much for its health and morality, as if they hadexpended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.
THE END
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1819-20
