80 lines
4.1 KiB
Plaintext
80 lines
4.1 KiB
Plaintext
1819-20
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THE SKETCH BOOK
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A SUNDAY IN LONDON*
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by Washington Irving
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* Part of a sketch omitted in the previous editions.
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IN A preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the
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country, and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but where
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is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very
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heart of that great Babel, London? On this sacred day, the gigantic
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monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of
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the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and
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manufactories are extinguished; and the sun, no longer obscured by
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murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the
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quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying
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forward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows
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are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care; they have put
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on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday
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clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person.
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And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons
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their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the
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family of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance;
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then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up
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daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds
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of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the
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window, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a
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nod and smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has
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assisted.
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Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city,
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peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of many feet
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announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antique
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cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm.
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The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage
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has ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks are
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folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of
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the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the
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shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time every
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thing is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the
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organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes and courts; and
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the sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with melody and
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praise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of
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church music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a
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river of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis,
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elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of the
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week; and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant
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harmony to heaven.
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The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with
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the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse
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into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city
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tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for
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social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family can now gather
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together, who are separated by the laborious occupations of the
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week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the
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paternal home; an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sunday
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seat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoices
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young and old with his well-known jokes.
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On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe
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the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural
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environs. Satirists may say what they please about the rural
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enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something
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delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty
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city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the
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green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's
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breast; and they who first spread out these noble parks and
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magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge metropolis, have
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done at least as much for its health and morality, as if they had
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expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.
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THE END
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