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DeepakKumar1943849
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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 are at an end. 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 pout on their Sunday looks and Sunday manners.
And now the melodious clangour 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 all the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and a smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. Now rubmles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff.
The ringing of bells is at an end. 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 much 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 recess 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.