sunday in the country.
sonst stuerzte sich der himmels-liebe kuss
auf mich herab, in ernster sabbathstille;
da klang so ahndungsvoll des glockentones fuelle,
und ein gebet war bruenstiger genuss:
ein unbegreiflich holdes sehnen
trieb mich durch wald und wiesen hinzugehn,
und unter tausend heissen thraenen,
fuehlt’ ich mir eine welt entstehn.
faust.
in other days, the kiss of heavenly love descended upon me in the solemn stillness of the sabbath; then the full-toned bell sounded so fraught with mystic meaning, and a prayer was vivid enjoyment. a longing, inconceivably sweet, drove me forth to wander over wood and plain, and amid a thousand burning tears, i felt a world rise up to me.
hayward’s translation.
goethe, in his faust, has given a very lively description of a german multitude bursting out of the city to enjoy an easter sunday;—mechanics, students, citizens’ daughters, servant-girls, townsmen, beggars, old women ready to tell fortunes, soldiers, and amongst the rest, his hero faust and his friend wagner, proceeding to enjoy a country walk. they reach a rising ground; and faust says—“turn and look back from this rising ground upon the town. from forth the gloomy portal presses a motley crowd. every one suns himself delightedly to-day. they celebrate the[556] rising of the lord, for they themselves have arisen: from the dark rooms of mean houses; from the bondage of mechanical drudgery; from the confinement of gables and roofs; from the stifling narrowness of streets; from the venerable gloom of churches—are they raised up to the open light of day. but look! look! how quickly the mass is scattering itself through the gardens and fields; how the river, broad and long, tosses many a merry bark upon its surface; and how this last wherry, overladen almost to sinking, moves off. even from the farthest paths of the mountain, gay-coloured dresses glance upon us. i hear already the bustle of the village. this is the true heaven of the multitude; big and little are huzzaing joyously. here i am a man—here i may be one.”
making allowance for the difference of national manners, this might serve for a picture of sunday in the neighbourhood of a large town in england. human nature is the same everywhere. the girls are looking out for sweethearts; and both mechanics and students are seeking after the best beer and the prettiest girl:
ein starkes bier, ein beitzender toback,
und eine magd im putz dass ist nun mein geschmack.
“strong beer, stinging tobacco, and a girl all in her best,—that is the taste for me,” cries one: and so it is here and everywhere. see how the multitudes of our large manufacturing towns, and of london spend their sundays. they pour out into the country in all directions, but it is not to enjoy the country only. they do enjoy the country; but it is because it heightens their wild delight in smoking, drinking, and flirtation. who does not know what innumerable haunts there are within five, ten, or even twenty miles round london, to which these classes repair on sundays: tea-houses and tea-gardens, country inns, hedge-alehouses, all the old and noted places where good beer and tobacco, merry company, and noisy politics are to be found? norwood, greenwich, richmond, hampton-court, windsor, the nore, herne-bay, gravesend, margate; and those old-fashioned places of resort that hone gives you glimpses of; such as copenhagen-house, the sluice-house, canonbury, etc.—what swarming votaries have they all.[30] and what an[557] immensity of new regions will the railroads that are now beginning to stretch their lines from the metropolis in different directions, lay open—terr? incognit?, as it were, to the millions that in the dense and ever-growing mass of monstrous london pant after an outburst into the country. truly may these say, through the medium of this modern and most providential means of occasional dispersion:—
to morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!
[30] the following calculation, made on whit-monday 1835, may give some idea of the number of similar pleasure-seekers on a fine summer sunday. on monday, between eight in the morning and nine at night, 191 steam-vessels passed through the pool to and from margate, herne-bay, sheerness, southend, the nore, gravesend, woolwich, and greenwich, including several on their way to and from scotland, ireland, and the continent. each vessel averaged, at least, 500 persons. the above calculation was made by mr. brown, a boat-builder in wapping, who with his servants, watched them all day. but many passed after nine, swelling the number to upwards of 200; so that more than 100,000 persons must have been afloat in the steamers on monday, exclusive of the passengers in small boats. several steam-vessels carried 800 and 900 souls each to the nore and back, one steam-vessel brought back from greenwich 1000 persons, another 1300, and a third was actually crowded with 1500 passengers.
i well remember two ladies of high reputation in the literary world, who, after reading faust, were inspired with a desire to see how the lower classes amused themselves on a sunday in this country. it was, they thought, a subject of profitable study. they could not divest themselves of the idea that the people must wonderfully enjoy themselves, in their own way; and perhaps they might imagine that they should be received and complimented, as faust and his friend wagner were. well; the experiment was tried. another gentleman and myself accompanied them; and of all schemes we hit upon that of going by the steam-packet to richmond. it was a fine morning in may. our packet and another sailed from st. katherine’s wharf with crowded decks, and a bright sun over our heads, casting its animating glory upon tower and town, over the majestic river, and the green country to which, anon, we emerged. we swept under bridge after bridge, and saw the mighty metropolis, with its vast wilderness of houses, wharfs, warehouses, and great public buildings, rapidly glide away behind us; above all the towers and spires of churches st. paul’s lifting its solemn dome and glittering cross; and then the villages, splendid villas, and beautiful gardens, with the tall robinias in[558] their new leaves, and covered with their snow-white masses of flowers, in gay succession;—lambeth, vauxhall, chelsea, battersea, fulham, putney, barnes, chiswick, kew, richmond!—it was a fair and promising scene.
the people on board were well-dressed. there were some portly, middle-aged dames, with gold watches at their sides, and clad in richest silks; and there were some as lovely young ones as london could shew. you were sure that there were plenty of the very-well-to-do-in-the-world about you, if there were none of the very refined; substantial tradespeople, that would have the best the world could procure in eating, drinking, and dressing. and there was a knot of germans too; men with great mustachios and laced coats; and damsels from whose tongues the strong, homely, expressive german speech seemed to fall wondrous softly. it was quite an attractive circumstance: for our fair friends, being just in the fresh fervour of studying “die deutche sprache,” and reading faust, imagined every thing in them interesting, and doubtless fancied them just such characters as goethe would have drawn much out of. all seemed promising, when lo! we were at richmond, and every thing had been only orderly, cheerful, and nothing more.
ah well! this was english decorum on a sunday; if it were not very piquant, it was at least, very commendable. we stepped on shore, lunched, strolled about on the terrace, amid streams of gay people; sat on one of the seats, and gazed over that vast expanse of rich woodland, meads, and villas; wandered down the green meadows towards petersham and twickenham, into the woods below the star-and-garter, and back to the packet. and now we were destined to see the character of the common people on a sunday jaunt. the moment the packet began to move, it began to rain, and all the way it rained! rained! rained! the ladies took refuge in the cabin. what a cabin! there were all the sober, orderly throng of the morning, metamorphosed by the power of strong drink into a rackety, roaring, drinking, smoking, insolent, and jammed-together crew. the cabin was crushing full. the stairs were densely packed with people. one of the ladies made a precipitate retreat upon deck, and there, with only the protection of her parasol, stood with the patience of a martyr and[559] the temper of a saint, all the weary length of the voyage, through dripping, drenching, never-ceasing rain! the other, with more fear of her silks and satins, and determined to see what such a crowd was, persisted in staying below. it was an act which only the highest heroism could have maintained. there was a group taking tea at a side-table, all well, very well-dressed people, and holding a conversation of such language! such sentiments! such anecdotes! and accompanied with such bursts of laughter! at what must have stricken people with any sense of decency, dumb! and then there were those spruce youths, so modest in the morning, now drinking pots of porter and smoking cigars. yes, smoking cigars, though the laws of the cabin, blazoned aloft, proclaimed—“no smoking allowed in the cabin!”—spite of all cabin, or cabinet, or parliamentary laws, they drank, they smoked, they rolled voluminous clouds from one to another; and when requested to desist, said—“o, certainly! it is perfectly insufferable for people to smoke in such company; they ought to be turned out.” and then all laughed together at their own wit. the captain was called, and begged to enforce his own law; and they cried, “o yes, captain! certainly, certainly,” and then laughed again; and the captain smiled, and withdrew: for what captain could seriously forbid smoke and drink that were purchased of himself?
these drapers’ apprentices and shopmen, for such they seemed, gloried in annoying the whole company; and for this purpose, they placed themselves by the open window, so that the draft carried the smoke across all the place. there did but prove to be one real gentleman in the whole troop, who accommodated the lady with a seat—for not a soul besides would stir—and said, as he saw her annoyance; for with all her endurance, this was visible—“madam, what a hell we have got into!”
and such, thought i, is a specimen of the populace of the mighty and enlightened london! truly the schoolmaster has work enough yet before him.
it was a party in a parlour,
crammed just as they on land are crammed;
some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
all noisy, and all damned!
our fair friends wished to see the character of the common[560] people in their sunday recreations, and they saw here a specimen that, i feel persuaded, will satisfy them for life. one, at least, saw this; for the other stood stoically silent upon deck, and saw nothing but rain! rain! rain! o the weary time of that voyage! amid oaths and clamour, vulgarity in all its shapes of swaggering, or maudlin foolishness, riot of action, and indecorum of speech, drinking, smoking, crushing, laughing, swearing,—a confusion carried along the fair thames, and into the heart of london, worse than that of babel, and worthy of pandemonium. how many thousands of such sunday revellers, steeped in drink, and roystering vulgarity, were pouring into that mighty heart of civilization and christian knowledge, at the moment we joyfully skipped up westminster-stairs, and thanked heaven that the goethe experiment was over.
what london exhibits on its own great scale, all our populous manufacturing towns exhibit, each in its own degree. it is curious to observe from the earliest hour of a sunday morning, in fine weather, what groups are pouring out into the country. there are mechanics who, in their shops and factories,—while they have been caged up by their imperious necessities during the week, and have only obtained thence sights of the clear blue sky above, of the green fields laughing far away, or have only caught the wafting of a refreshing gale on their fevered cheek as they hurried homeward to a hasty meal, or back again to the incarceration of mammon,—have had their souls inflamed with desires for breaking away into the free country. these have been planning, day after day, whither they shall go on sunday. to what distant village; to what object of attraction. there have come visions of a neat country alehouse to them; its clean hearth, sanded floor; its capital ale, and aromatic pipe after a long walk; its pure unadulterated fare, sweet bread, savoury rashers of bacon, beef steaks and onions, and all with most mouth-watering odours. others have seen clear hurrying trout-streams, or deep still fish-ponds, lying all along wild moors, or amid tangled woods; and they have determined to be with them. they will take angle and net; they will strip off clothes, and take the trout with their hands, from under the grassy banks of their little swift streams. they will have a dash at the squire’s carp, when he and all his people are at church.[561] and, in other seasons, mushroom gathering, and nutting, and all kinds of what is called sabbath-breaking, come before them with an unconquerable impetus. for to their minds—neglected, but full of strong desires and pent-up energies—nature’s delights, wild pursuits, bodily refreshments, and the enjoyment of one day’s full freedom from towns, red walls, dry pavements, shops, masters, and even wives and children, are mixed up into a strange, but wonderfully bewitching excitement. these are going off, before the world in general is awake, at four, five, or six o’clock in a morning, in clusters of twos and threes, sixes and sevens, with long and eager strides, stout sticks in their hands, and faces set towards the country with a determined expression of fresh-air hungriness. and there, again, are going the bird-catchers; two or three of them, with two or three children with them, perhaps. they have some far-off green lane, or furzy common, or airy down in their mind, to which they are hastening with their cages, carried under a piece of green baize, or blinded with a handkerchief. all the way will they stalk on at a four-mile rate, and these little lads—the least not more than five years old—will go on trotting after them, and never think of weariness till all the sport is over, and they are making their way homeward in the evening. then shall you see them dragged along by one of their father’s hands; for the men will not slacken pace for them, but pull them along with them; and you will see those little legs go on, trot, trot, trot, till you think they will actually be worn to the stumps before they reach home. these men and eager lads you will find in some solitary spot seven or eight miles off, if you go out so far, seated silently under a tall hedge or old tree, or in some moorland thicket, watching their apparatus, which is placed at a distance; their tame bird, of the species they are seeking to take, chained by its leg to a crossed stick, or a bough thrust into the ground. there it is, hopping about and chirping in the sunshine; and around stand cages containing other decoy birds, and other cages ready to receive the unsuspicious birds, that, attracted by the hopping and chirping of their captive kinsmen, will presently come and alight near them, and speedily get entangled in the limed twigs that are disposed about, or will find the net that is ready spread for them, come swoop over them. every person who has walked the streets[562] of london, has seen the crowds of these little captives, larks, woodlarks, linnets, goldfinches, nightingales, etc., in the shops, which have been thus caught on all the great heaths and downs, for twenty miles round the metropolis, by fowlers, who are nearly always thus employed there.
then, again, you see another sunday class; tradesmen, shopkeepers, and their assistants and apprentices,—all those who have friends in the country,—on horseback or in gigs, driving off to spend the day with those that come occasionally and pay them a visit at markets and fairs. the faces of these are set for farm and other country-houses within twenty miles round. there is not a horse or gig to be had for love or money at any of the livery-stables on a sunday. these hebdomadal rusticators,—these good dinner-eaters, fruit-devourers, curd-and-cream-consumers, pipe-smokers, and loungers in gardens, garden-arbours, crofts, orchards,—these soi-disant judges of cattle, crops, dogs, guns, game,—these haunters of country-houses, complimenters of country beauties, and lovers of good country fare,—have got them all. yes, yes, many a pleasant sunday in the country do these men spend after their fashion,—none of the worst, if none of the holiest; and yet they go to the village church too sometimes, and wonder that so fine a preacher should be hidden in such a place. towards nine or ten o’clock in the evening, they will be pouring back into the town as blithely as they rolled out in the morning, being now primed with all those good things that lured them away so sharply after breakfast.
and, when they were gone, how sunnily and cheerily passed the day in the town; the merry bells all ringing, the gay people all abroad, streaming along the smooth pavements to church or chapel, or for the forenoon and evening promenade, in their fresh and handsome attire. such troops of lovely women, such counterpoising numbers of goodly and well-dressed men: all squalor, and poverty, and trouble, and distress, shrunk backward into the alleys and dens out of sight; all cares and tradesmanship shut up in the closed shops and warehouses; and nothing but ease, leisure, bravery of equipment, and shew of wealth, walking in the face of the sun, as if there was no reason why they should not walk there for ever. the very beggars are gone, like swallows in autumn—not one to[563] be seen, except in the secret rendezvous where they pass one long day of luxurious idleness. the barrack has sent forth its troop of soldiers in their rich full-dress. they have marched with sounding music to the great church, with their usual crowd of boys and idle men after them. and then, morning, noon, or evening, you have seen a group of people collect in the market-place, or some open street, that has grown and grown into a large, dense crowd; and then you have seen a man suddenly appear, with bare head, and book in hand, in the centre. this is some field-preacher; one of many hundreds that on this day, in towns, villages, rural lanes, or on heaths and commons, go out to preach to them who are too indifferent, or too shabby, to come into a respectable place of worship.
we often think how strange it would have been to have lived in the days of the reformation, or of the puritans, when men full of zeal went to and fro, through the length and breadth of the land, to denounce the dominant form of religion, and preach repentance and salvation from the bible. we have not the opposition and the persecution now, or we should have just such men and such scenes. there is such freedom for every man to choose his own mode of worship, and the religiously inclined have so many modes to choose from, and to associate them with a circle of people so much after their own hearts, that they have no impulse to seek further; no, not to seek after those who have no particular desire to be found; they think it enough that they have chapel-room and open doors for those who will come. it is chiefly, therefore, the poor that are left to seek after the poor; that feel it incumbent to “go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to come in.” the mechanic, who has been labouring hard all the week in his worldly vocation, now shaves and washes, and dresses the best he may, and goes forth, fearing not the sneers and the scorn of the great and learned, of the worldly-wise and genteel, but comes into the very face of them, and before their gay windows in the open square; often before the lofty church and majestic cathedral, whose organ-tones are deeply pealing in his ears. there he lifts up his homely features, his rudely clipped head; there he lifts up his horny hand, that has for many a year dealt sturdy strokes to inanimate matter, and now deals, with tenfold zeal,[564] strokes as hard to hearts as hard. there he lifts up his voice in no finely modulated or practised tones, but with earnest pleadings and awful threatenings and unfoldings of god’s judgments on the wicked and careless; and then, with as earnest and affectionate expositions of his mercies, arrests, terrifies, melts, and fills with new sensations and desires the hearts of his fellows in the lowest regions of human life, who have lived beyond the sound of heavenly promises, and of god’s love and fear in a great measure, “because no one cared for their souls.”
the wise may wonder; the learned may curl the lip of classical pride; the gay and the happy, who live in splendid houses, and worship in splendid pews and beneath high and arched roofs, may pass by, and not even glance on the poor illiterate preacher and his spell-bound audience; but that man is, after all, a patriot and a scholar; a good subject of the realm—a good servant of heaven; and will probably effect more real benefit in one day, than a dozen of us, who think sufficiently well of our services to the commonwealth, shall effect in all our lives: and till some comprehensive plan is adopted, by which the sabbath may lay all its advantages, all its holy peace, all its knowledge and heavenly fruition, before every man, woman and child, in this great empire, he must and shall do what he can to supply the deficiency. with all his ignorance,—and he has much,—he has learned what is necessary for the good of his own spirit, and the strength of natural sympathy has taught him the way to communicate it to the hearts of his fellows. he knows the language, the style, the tone of sentiment and the species of argument that the soonest reaches them. he knows their besetments and their wants, for he has been pursued by the same needs, tainted by the same corruptions, baptized into the same distresses; he has an experimental knowledge that no man of another class can have. with all his extravagance,—and he has much,—he has not half the amount that we daily see in more dignified places; and for the wildness, the error, the eccentricity of his doctrines, ah! how much more readily could we match them in those after whom carriages roll, and the world runs, and on whom honours and wealth are heaped as an inadequate reward. see there, how he extends his arms! how he beats the air! how he strains every muscle, and exerts every fibre of his[565] frame, till the perspiration rolls from his heated brow; how he thunders, and makes the whole great area ring with the outbreak of his terrors, his adjurations, and his appeals! and yet, from the simple table on which he is mounted shall no folly proceed, that has not its counterpart in the most dignified pulpit, wholly freed—and that is a world of advantage—from the freezing indifference that fills thousands with its torpidity.
for the seamen, london and liverpool, and other ports, offer their floating or seamen’s chapels, where they may hear the gospel preached in a language that goes straight to their hearts and understandings, but which a landsman would attempt in vain. like the lower orders in general, they have a language and an experience of their own, and the man who preaches to them in another language, and with other imagery, cannot keep alive their attention, however eloquent, or however learned; and he who attempts their language without a practical knowledge of their life, only excites their ridicule. it is even necessary, occasionally, to accommodate the language of scripture to their ideas and experience. a very popular preacher once requested permission to address the sailors in their floating chapel at liverpool, and, attempting seamen’s language, told them that he who secured an interest in christ, cast anchor on a rock! at once all eyebrows were elevated in amazement, and broad grins overspread every face. “hear him! hear him!” they cried, one to another, “he talks of casting anchor on a rock!” yet there was no uncommon hardness, or propensity to scoffing in these men; on the contrary, it was admirable to see, when captain scoresby, the well-known northern voyager, addressed them, how they kindled with interest, and melted down in emotion: when he told them how christ preached in a ship, how he loved the mariners of his days, the tears started from their eyes, and rolled over scores of hardy cheeks that had faced the fiercest gales, and been tanned by the hottest suns. it was, and is still, i doubt not, delightful to see such an audience. there was the smart sailor and his smart lass; others with their wives and families; and old men who had spent the greatest portion of a long life on the seas. such a collection of black and curly heads, of bushy whiskers, of the thin and white hair of age, of eyes gleaming with youth and life, or dimmed[566] by the extremity of years!—such an intent and childlike throng of listeners! all so little accustomed to artifice,—to conceal or feel shame for their emotions,—that the changes of their expressions were as rapid and striking as those of the sun and wind on their own element. there sate some happy fathers, with their children on their knees, as though they saw so little of them, had found them so lately, or must leave them so soon, that they could not have them near enough. there sate strong men, touched to the depth of their hearts by the pathos of the preacher, leaning against the side of the cabin, and weeping unrestrained tears, or listening, with lips apart, in breathless attention; and there sate women, who, when winds and tempests were mentioned, turned a fond, anxious look to some dear one sitting by them; and others, who when the voyagers at sea were prayed for, clasped their hands, and looked to heaven unutterable things. great must be the comfort and the blessing of thus bringing christianity to the knowledge of our seafaring men. great has been its effect amongst the fishermen of cornwall, as any one may see, who will visit the crowded chapels of st. ives, and other places.
but there is still another class of preachers that may be encountered on sundays: the disciples of irving. none of your simple mechanics, but gentlemen—gentlemen in appearance, in manners, in education. you will see such a one pulling out his pocket bible, in some public situation, and beginning to address the two or three that happen to stand near. the singularity of the thing soon attracts others; there begins to be a moving from all parts towards that spot, till there is at length a large and dense crowd. there, in the midst of this wondering and promiscuous circle, in the most cultivated tones, with the most proper action, and in the purest language, you hear, perhaps, the honourable and reverend —— himself, “dealing damnation round the land;” depicting his audience in the most fearful colours, as fallen, utterly corrupt, blackened with every imaginable sin, and wandering blindfold on the very brink of hell. in the opinion of some of these preachers, all the world is lying in ignorance and sin; all other preachers of all other creeds are blind leaders of the blind; to him and his few coadjutors alone has the mystery of godliness been revealed; “they are the men, and wisdom shall die with[567] them.” i must confess that to me, this cold calvinism, this abusive and declamatory zeal, though coming from very gentlemanly mouths, is not a thousandth part so attractive as the warm-hearted, liberal, and affectionate addresses of the illiterate mechanic. nay, to me it is excessively repulsive; and i would much rather find myself in some far-off village, in some green lane, or on the heath, where such are holding their summer camp-meeting.
i love the sound of hymns
on some bright sabbath morning, on the moor
where all is still save praise; and where hard by
the ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun:
the wild bee hums more solemnly: the deep sky;
the fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook,—
all look as if they knew the day, the hour,
and felt with man the need and joy of thanks.
philip bailey’s festus.
there at least are warmth and enthusiasm; there at least, if there be extravagance, is also an exhibition of much character, and plenty of the picturesque. a crowd of rustic people is assembled; a wagon is drawn thither for a stage, and in it stand men with black skull-caps, or coloured handkerchiefs tied upon their heads to prevent taking cold after their violent exertions; men of those grave and massy, or thin, worn, and sharp features, that tell of strong, rude intellects, or active and consuming spirits; men in whose bright, quick eyes, or still, deep gaze, from beneath shaggy brows, you read passions that will lighten, or a shrewdness that will tell with strong effect. in their addresses you are continually catching the most picturesque expressions, the most unlooked-for illustrations,—often the most irresistibly amusing. i heard one edifying his audience with an account of the apples of the dead sea, gathered most likely, at a tenth transmission, from adam clarke’s commentaries. “ay,” said he, “sin is fair to look at, but foul to taste. it is like those apples that grow by the red sea. they are yellow as gold on one side, and rosy-cheeked as a fair maid of a morning on the other; but bite them,—yes, i say bite them, and they are full of pepper and mustard!”
another was talking of god’s goodness, and applying christ’s illustration: “‘if you ask your father for bread, will he give you a stone?’ now, my brethren i don’t mean a stone of bread,—christ[568] didn’t mean a stone of bread: for, may be, it was not sold by the stone in his time; and he would not be a bad father neither, that gave you a stone of bread at a time; but i mean a stone from the road,—a real pebble, as cold as charity, as bare as the back of my hand, and as hard as the heart of a sinner.”
now, none but those who had known the immense value of a stone of bread would be likely to think of such a thing, or to guard against such a mistake. but with such laughable errors, with much ignorance and outrageous cant, there is often mixed up a rude intellectual strength, and a freshness of thought that never knew the process of taming and trammelling called education, and that fears no criticism; and flashes of poetical light, that please the more for the rudeness of their accompaniment. there are women, too, that exhort in soft voices and pathetic tones on such occasions; and, suddenly the crowd will divide itself into several companies, and go singing to different parts of the field. their hymns have a wild vivacity, a metaphoric boldness, and strange as it may seem, a greater spirituality about them than those of any other english sect that i have come in contact with. it is well known that they are set to some of the finest and liveliest, and most touching song-tunes; and hence, perhaps partly their startling effect; having divested themselves of that dry and dolorous monotony that hangs about sectarian hymns in general. they describe the christian life under the figure of battles and campaigns, with “christ their conquering captain” at their head; as pilgrimages, and night-watches; and hence their addresses are full of the most vivid imagery. i well remember, in the dusk of a fine summer evening, the moon hanging in the far western sky, the dark leaves of the brookside alders rustling in the twilight air, hearing, from the dim heath where they were holding their camp-meetings, the wild sound of one of these hymns. it was the dialogue of a spirit questioning and answering itself in the passage of death and the entrance into the happy land, and the chorused words of “all is well!—all is well!” came over the shadowy waste with an unearthly effect.
singing then, such hymns,—but on these occasions chiefly of supplication or triumph,—they kneel down, each company in a circle; the leaders pray; and it is curious to see what looks of[569] holy jealousy are cast from one circle to another, as the voice of one leader predominates over those of the others by its vehemence, its loudness, or its eloquence; drawing speedily away all the audience of the less gifted. it is scarcely now to be expected that we shall ever find a whitefield, a wesley, a fox, or a bunyan, on such an occasion, but from the effect of the enthusiasm, the earnestness, the wild energy and rude eloquence, that i have seen in a few humble men, i can well imagine, with lord byron, what must be the impression made by one strong mind under the broad blue sky, and amid the accompanying picturesqueness of scene and people.
but let us away into the far, far country! into the still, pure, unadulterated country. ah! here indeed is a sabbath! what a sunny peace, what a calm yet glad repose lies on its fair hills; over all its solemn woods! how its flowery dales, and deep, secluded valleys reflect the holy tranquillity of heaven! it is morning; and the sun comes up the sky as if he knew it was a day of universal pause in the workings of the world; he shines over the glittering dews, and green leaves, and ten thousand blossoms; and the birds fill the blue fresh air with a rapture of music. the earth looks new and beautiful as on the day of its creation; but it is as full of rest as if it drew near to its close—all its revolutions past, all its turbulence hushed, all its mighty griefs healed, its mysterious destinies accomplished; and the light of eternity about to break over it with a new and imperishable power. man rests from his labours, and every thing rests with him. there lie the weary steeds that have dragged the chain, and smarted under the lash—that have pulled the plough and the ponderous wagon, or flown over hill and dale at man’s bidding; there they lie, on the slope of the sunny field; and the very sheep and cattle seem imbued with their luxurious enjoyment of rest. the farmer has been walking into his fields, looking over this gate and that fence, into enclosures of grass, mottled with flowers like a carpet, or rich green corn growing almost visibly; at his cattle and his flock; and now he comes back with leisurely steps, and enters the shady quiet of his house. and it is a shady quiet. the sun glances about its porch, and flickers amongst the leaves on the wall, and the sparrows chirp, and fly to and fro; but the dog lies[570] and slumbers on the step of the door, or only raises his head to snap at the flies that molest him. the very cat, coiled up on a sunbright border in the garden, sleeps voluptuously:—within, all is cleanness and rest. there is none of the running and racketing of the busy week-day: the pressing of curds, and shaping and turning of cheese; the rolling of the barrel-churn; the scouring of pails; the pumping, and slopping, and working, and chattering, and singing, and scolding of dairymaids. all that can be dispensed with, is, and what must be done is done quietly, and is early away. there is a clean, cool parlour; the open window lets in the odour of the garden—the yet cool and delicious odour, and the hum of bees. flowers stand in their pots in the window; gathered flowers stand on the breakfast table; and the farmer’s comely wife, already dressed for the day, as she sees him come in, sits down to pour out his coffee. over the croft-gate the labourers are leaning, talking of the last week’s achievements, and those of the week to come; and in many a cottage garden the cottagers, with their wives and children, are wandering up and down, admiring the growth of this and that; and every one settles in his own mind, that his cabbages, and peas, and beans are the best in the whole country; and that as for currants, gooseberries, apricots, and strawberries, there never were such crops since trees and bushes grew.
but the bells ring out from the old church tower. the pastor is already issuing from his pleasant parsonage; groups of peasantry are already seen streaming over the uplands towards the village. in the lanes, gay ribbons and sunday-gowns glance from between the trees, and every house sends forth its inhabitants to worship. blessings on those old grey fabrics, that stand on many a hill and in many a lowly hollow, all over this beloved country; for much as we reprobate that system of private or political patronage by which unqualified, unholy, and unchristian men have sometimes been thrust into their ancient pulpits, i am of sir walter scott’s opinion, that no places are so congenial to the holy simplicity of christian worship as they are. they have an air of antiquity about them—a shaded sanctity, and stand so venerably amid the most english scenes, and the tombs of generations of the dead, that we cannot enter them without having our imaginations and our hearts[571] powerfully impressed with every feeling and thought that can make us love our country, and yet feel that it is not our abiding place. those antique arches, those low massy doors, were raised in days that are long gone by; around these walls, nay, beneath our very feet, sleep those who, in their generations, helped, each in his little sphere, to build up england to her present pitch of greatness. we catch glimpses of that deep veneration, of that unambitious simplicity of mind and manner that we would fain hold fast amid our growing knowledge, and its inevitable remodelling of the whole framework of society. we are made to feel earnestly the desire to pluck the spirit of faith, the integrity of character, and the whole heart of love to kin and country, out of the ignorance and blind subjection of the past. therefore is it that i have always loved the village church, that i have delighted to stroll far through the summer fields; and hear still onward its bells ringing happily; to enter and sit down amongst its rustic congregation,—better pleased with their murmur of responses, and their artless but earnest chant, than with all the splendour and parade of more lofty fabrics. therefore is it that i long to see the people rescued from the thraldom of aristocratic patronage, that they may select at their own will, the pious and pure hearted to fill every pulpit in the land, and station in every parish a lover of god, a lover of the country, and a lover of the poor.
but sunday morning is past: the afternoon is rolling away; but it shall not roll away without its dower of happiness shed on every down, and into every beautiful vale of this fair kingdom. closed are the doors of the church, but opened are those of thousands and tens of thousands of dwellings to receive friends and kindred. and around the pleasant tea-table, happy groups are gathering in each other’s houses, freed from the clinging, pressing, enslaving cares of the six days; and sweetly, and full of renewing strength to the heart, does the evening there roll away. and does it not roll as sweetly where, by many a cottage-door, the aged grandfather and grandmother sit with two generations about them, and bask in another glorious sabbath sunset? and is it not sweet where friends stroll through the delicious fields, in high or cheerful talk; along the green lane, or broom-engoldened hill-side; or down into the woodland valley, where the waters run clear and[572] chimingly, amid the dipping grass and the brooklime; and the yellow beams of the descending sun glance serenely amongst the trees? and is it not sweet where, on some sequestered stile, sit two happy lovers, or where they stray along some twilight path, and the woodbine and the wild-rose are drooping their flowery boughs over them, while earth and heaven, supremely lovely in themselves, take new and divine hues from their own passionate spirits; and youth and truth are theirs: the present is theirs in love, the future is theirs in high confidence: all that makes glorious the life of angels is theirs for the time. yes! all through the breadth of this great land,—through its cities, its villages, its fair fields, its liberated millions are walking in the eye of heaven, drinking in its sublime calm, refreshed by its gales, soothed by the peaceful beauty of the earth. there is a pause of profound, holy tranquillity, in which twilight drops down upon innumerable roofs, and prayers ascend from countless hearths in city and in field, on heath and mountain,—and then, ’tis gone; and the sabbath is ended.
but blessings, and ten thousand blessings be upon that day; and let myriads of thanks stream up to the throne of god, for this divine and regenerating gift to man. as i have sate in some flowery dale, with the sweetness of may around me, on a week-day, i have thought of all the millions of immortal creatures toiling for their daily life in factories and shops, amid the whirl of machinery and the greedy cravings of mercantile gain, and suddenly this golden interval of time has lain before me in all its brightness,—a time, and a perpetually recurring time, in which the iron grasp of earthly tyranny is loosed, and peace, faith, and freedom, the angels of god, come down and walk once more amongst men!
ten thousand blessings on this day, the friend of man and beast. the bigot would rob it of its healthful freedom, on the one hand, and coop man up in his work-a-day dungeons, and cause him to walk with downcast eyes and demure steps; and the libertine would desecrate all its sober decorum on the other. god, and the sound heart and sterling sense of englishmen, preserve it from both these evils! let us still avoid puritan rigidity, and french dissipation. let our children and our servants, and those who toil for[573] us in vaults, and shops, and factories, between the intervals of solemn worship have freedom to walk in the face of heaven and the beauty of earth, for in the great temple of nature stand together, health and piety. for myself, i speak from experience, it has always been my delight to go out on a sunday, and like isaac, meditate in the fields, and especially, in the sweet tranquillity and amid the gathering shadows of evening; and never in temple or in closet, did more hallowed influences fall upon my heart. with the twilight and the hush of earth, a tenderness has stolen upon me; a desire for every thing pure and holy; a love for every creature on which god has stamped the wonder of his handiwork; but especially for every child of humanity; and then have i been made to feel that there is no oratory like that which has heaven itself for its roof, and no teaching like the teaching of the spirit which created, and still overshadows the world with its infinite wings.
