On this page

• Text (1)

  Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.

  • 

    Untitled Article

• Transcript

  • Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.

    Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.

    Untitled Article

    but don ' t be persuaded from taking your evening stroll out of town—your musing , meditative saunter through the serene green fields of the suburbs—your ale , biscuits , and shrimps , or brand y and water * cold without * —your tranquil pipe and dool arbourseat—your chat on politics or other matters with the intelli gent old gentleman who ' hopes he doem ' t intrude himself into your company ;'—do not be persuaded from these innocent enjoyments

    though legions of solemn , serious Andrews cross your path ,, and strive to make you believe the merry Andrews are your worst friends and most sinful companions . Mind them not , out deli ght , as was your wont , in beholding the careless , innocent little men and little women , who are to be the fathers and mothers of your grandchildren , romping and rolling over the lawn which makes green the * trim garden' where you ' take your pleasure . '

    Admire , as you must do , that little girl with double-stalked cherries hanging from either ear , and bobbing against either cheek , as round and beautiful with Nature ' s own * white and red . ' Laugh , if you like , at that humorous urchin who , like a young bacchanal , has purpled his nose and cheeks with juice of a black-heart cherry . Or turn your eyes upon that happy group busily blowing- up gooseberry-skins , and exploding them , on the backs of

    their hands . Regard , like the reflective moralist you are , that breathless boy chasing the golden-winged butterfly , dodging it in and out as it doubles and turns , till at last , with exulting wing , it mounts aloft ; and now he stands weeping for what , though beautiful , is worthless . Listen—they will not think you an eave ' s-dropper for your curiosity—listen to the proud and delig hted mothers of those little ones descanting on the several merits of the members of their domestic flocks—recounting their

    hopes and fears , their pains and pleasures . If angels ever look down upon this world with affection , it is when the love of a mother dwells upon her children—trembles on her tongue , speaks in her eyes , and yearns in her ' heart of hearts . ' Sucii sights as these may be seen in humble places , where the proud and the fastidious would fear to enter ; indulge in them , dear Sunday , you who are a cosmopolite , and not so particular a fellow as you are

    thought and many wish you to be . Sermons are to be heard even in a tea-garden—or , if not heard , may be read ; and the eye needs its lessons as well as the ear . A London Sunday is not what it was . Any one who remembers London thirty years ago must see ,, and , if candid , will acknowledge that the external decencies of life are now more general—that there is more self-restraint—less drunkenness , riot , and debauchery , though perhaps as much comparative poverty

    as ever , even among the most unenlightened classes—in the lowest and humblest neighbourhoods . Thirty years since , such a lively locality &s prury-lane was , on q Sunday , frojn day-bveak till long after dark , one carnival of revehry , from the sotitn end of it even

    Untitled Article

    562 A London Sunday .

• Citation
  • Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), Aug. 2, 1834, page 562, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse-os.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2636/page/32/