I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves
to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her
afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the
grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed
from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood
I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly
breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in
that world where sorrow is never known and friends are never
parted.
A SUNDAY IN LONDON.*
* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.
IN a preceding paper 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 of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The
fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished, and the sun,
no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober
yellow radiance into the quiet streets. 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 put on their Sunday looks and Sunday
manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as
well as in person.
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