Sunday Under Three Heads | Page 4

working himself up to a pitch of enthusiasm
amounting almost to frenzy, he denounces sabbath-breakers with the
direst vengeance of offended Heaven. He stretches his body half out of
the pulpit, thrusts forth his arms with frantic gestures, and
blasphemously calls upon The Deity to visit with eternal torments,
those who turn aside from the word, as interpreted and preached
by--himself. A low moaning is heard, the women rock their bodies to

and fro, and wring their hands; the preacher's fervour increases, the
perspiration starts upon his brow, his face is flushed, and he clenches
his hands convulsively, as he draws a hideous and appalling picture of
the horrors preparing for the wicked in a future state. A great
excitement is visible among his hearers, a scream is heard, and some
young girl falls senseless on the floor. There is a momentary rustle, but
it is only for a moment--all eyes are turned towards the preacher. He
pauses, passes his handkerchief across his face, and looks complacently
round. His voice resumes its natural tone, as with mock humility he
offers up a thanksgiving for having been successful in his efforts, and
having been permitted to rescue one sinner from the path of evil. He
sinks back into his seat, exhausted with the violence of his ravings; the
girl is removed, a hymn is sung, a petition for some measure for
securing the better observance of the Sabbath, which has been prepared
by the good man, is read; and his worshipping admirers struggle who
shall be the first to sign it.
But the morning service has concluded, and the streets are again
crowded with people. Long rows of cleanly-dressed charity children,
preceded by a portly beadle and a withered schoolmaster, are returning
to their welcome dinner; and it is evident, from the number of men with
beer-trays who are running from house to house, that no inconsiderable
portion of the population are about to take theirs at this early hour. The
bakers' shops in the humbler suburbs especially, are filled with men,
women, and children, each anxiously waiting for the Sunday dinner.
Look at the group of children who surround that working man who has
just emerged from the baker's shop at the corner of the street, with the
reeking dish, in which a diminutive joint of mutton simmers above a
vast heap of half-browned potatoes. How the young rogues clap their
hands, and dance round their father, for very joy at the prospect of the
feast: and how anxiously the youngest and chubbiest of the lot, lingers
on tiptoe by his side, trying to get a peep into the interior of the dish.
They turn up the street, and the chubby- faced boy trots on as fast as his
little legs will carry him, to herald the approach of the dinner to
'Mother' who is standing with a baby in her arms on the doorstep, and
who seems almost as pleased with the whole scene as the children
themselves; whereupon 'baby' not precisely understanding the
importance of the business in hand, but clearly perceiving that it is

something unusually lively, kicks and crows most lustily, to the
unspeakable delight of all the children and both the parents: and the
dinner is borne into the house amidst a shouting of small voices, and
jumping of fat legs, which would fill Sir Andrew Agnew with
astonishment; as well it might, seeing that Baronets, generally speaking,
eat pretty comfortable dinners all the week through, and cannot be
expected to understand what people feel, who only have a meat dinner
on one day out of every seven.
The bakings being all duly consigned to their respective owners, and
the beer-man having gone his rounds, the church bells ring for
afternoon service, the shops are again closed, and the streets are more
than ever thronged with people; some who have not been to church in
the morning, going to it now; others who have been to church, going
out for a walk; and others--let us admit the full measure of their
guilt--going for a walk, who have not been to church at all. I am afraid
the smart servant of all work, who has been loitering at the corner of
the square for the last ten minutes, is one of the latter class. She is
evidently waiting for somebody, and though she may have made up her
mind to go to church with him one of these mornings, I don't think they
have any such intention on this particular afternoon. Here he is, at last.
The white trousers, blue coat, and yellow waistcoat--and more
especially that cock of the hat--indicate, as surely as inanimate objects
can, that Chalk Farm and not the parish church, is their destination. The
girl colours up, and puts out her hand with