Sunday Under Three Heads | Page 3

breakfasts, are also
open. This class comprises, in a place like London, an enormous
number of people, whose limited means prevent their engaging for their
lodgings any other apartment than a bedroom, and who have

consequently no alternative but to take their breakfasts at a coffee-shop,
or go without it altogether. All these places, however, are quickly
closed; and by the time the church bells begin to ring, all appearance of
traffic has ceased. And then, what are the signs of immorality that meet
the eye? Churches are well filled, and Dissenters' chapels are crowded
to suffocation. There is no preaching to empty benches, while the
drunken and dissolute populace run riot in the streets.
Here is a fashionable church, where the service commences at a late
hour, for the accommodation of such members of the congregation--
and they are not a few--as may happen to have lingered at the Opera far
into the morning of the Sabbath; an excellent contrivance for poising
the balance between God and Mammon, and illustrating the ease with
which a man's duties to both, may be accommodated and adjusted.
How the carriages rattle up, and deposit their richly- dressed burdens
beneath the lofty portico! The powdered footmen glide along the aisle,
place the richly-bound prayer-books on the pew desks, slam the doors,
and hurry away, leaving the fashionable members of the congregation
to inspect each other through their glasses, and to dazzle and glitter in
the eyes of the few shabby people in the free seats. The organ peals
forth, the hired singers commence a short hymn, and the congregation
condescendingly rise, stare about them, and converse in whispers. The
clergyman enters the reading-desk,--a young man of noble family and
elegant demeanour, notorious at Cambridge for his knowledge of
horse-flesh and dancers, and celebrated at Eton for his hopeless
stupidity. The service commences. Mark the soft voice in which he
reads, and the impressive manner in which he applies his white hand,
studded with brilliants, to his perfumed hair. Observe the graceful
emphasis with which he offers up the prayers for the King, the Royal
Family, and all the Nobility; and the nonchalance with which he hurries
over the more uncomfortable portions of the service, the seventh
commandment for instance, with a studied regard for the taste and
feeling of his auditors, only to be equalled by that displayed by the
sleek divine who succeeds him, who murmurs, in a voice kept down by
rich feeding, most comfortable doctrines for exactly twelve minutes,
and then arrives at the anxiously expected 'Now to God,' which is the
signal for the dismissal of the congregation. The organ is again heard;
those who have been asleep wake up, and those who have kept awake,

smile and seem greatly relieved; bows and congratulations are
exchanged, the livery servants are all bustle and commotion, bang go
the steps, up jump the footmen, and off rattle the carriages: the inmates
discoursing on the dresses of the congregation, and congratulating
themselves on having set so excellent an example to the community in
general, and Sunday-pleasurers in particular.
Enter a less orthodox place of religious worship, and observe the
contrast. A small close chapel with a white-washed wall, and plain deal
pews and pulpit, contains a closely-packed congregation, as different in
dress, as they are opposed in manner, to that we have just quitted. The
hymn is sung--not by paid singers, but by the whole assembly at the
loudest pitch of their voices, unaccompanied by any musical instrument,
the words being given out, two lines at a time, by the clerk. There is
something in the sonorous quavering of the harsh voices, in the lank
and hollow faces of the men, and the sour solemnity of the women,
which bespeaks this a strong-hold of intolerant zeal and ignorant
enthusiasm. The preacher enters the pulpit. He is a coarse, hard-faced
man of forbidding aspect, clad in rusty black, and bearing in his hand a
small plain Bible from which he selects some passage for his text,
while the hymn is concluding. The congregation fall upon their knees,
and are hushed into profound stillness as he delivers an extempore
prayer, in which he calls upon the Sacred Founder of the Christian faith
to bless his ministry, in terms of disgusting and impious familiarity not
to be described. He begins his oration in a drawling tone, and his
hearers listen with silent attention. He grows warmer as he proceeds
with his subject, and his gesticulation becomes proportionately violent.
He clenches his fists, beats the book upon the desk before him, and
swings his arms wildly about his head. The congregation murmur their
acquiescence in his doctrines: and a short groan, occasionally bears
testimony to the moving nature of his eloquence. Encouraged by these
symptoms of approval, and