SUNDAYS IN THE CITY AND COUNTRY. BY W. E. SUNDAY in the city, is not a very agreeable thing after all. In summer, it is dry, hot, and dusty, while in winter it is slippery, blowy, and chill. Not that the day is any thing but delightful every where, it is the concomitants that I dislike. In town there is too much dressing. A whole wilderness of ladies in shot silks and feathers, and a whole army of gentlemen in black coats and small boots, produces an uninteresting spectacle in my eyes. The day of holy promptings and heavenward aspirations tricked out like a raree show, and the conversion of a sober-sided city into a showy, human menagerie, does not seem to be the true purpose of the weekly festival. In walking down the street, while you are attempting to purge your heated imagination of a thousand petty enormities you have committed during the past week, you suddenly, in the midst of your metaphysics stumble over an old dove-colored woman in a lavender gown, and intrude a full-born oh! into the middle of a half-grown prayer. This is any thing but agreeable. Besides, there is great danger of a person worshipping in the street, from the crowds of "little responsibilities" that giggle and pop about like a flock of new-fangled chickens. You, loftily abstracted in the consideration of free grace, or propitiation by faith, or original sin, having forgotten the minor concerns, proceed at your full length into a thick swarm of these minimized (as Bentham says,) bags of bones,-they, in little, cheap, nine-penny ginghams, and partly dirty straw hats; "oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen,"-a fall even in the dogdays. Children should be advertised when they walk in the streets on Sunday, and have a nurse, or something else of that kind with them, saying in a loud voice, "Children here- keep clear; "--a stentorian nurse, with a good pair of India-rubber lungs, would probably supply the demand for this article. A man who walks to meeting fast, and has his prayers in a book in his pocket, is in great danger, as well as your vaccinelooking, slow worshipper, who having not prayed for the week back, tries to condense a solid mass of worship into the small superficies of a Sunday morning. He rattles along like a late mail-coach, bumping six inches high at every pebble he strikes. In the summer he gets poked by a parcel of parasols, and when he looks over his shoulder to see to whom he is indebted, encounters CHANNING. the stern eyes of a partially expanded belle, and hears her say in bell-tones, "Ugh! the red brute." And by the red-"there hangs a tale." This awful business of growing red in the streets! Especially do its multitudinous horrors dawn upon the moderately fleshy person of a warm Sunday morning. He retires to his room and dresses for church. He puts on his new black coat, and white waistcoat just escaped out of the laundresses hands, his tight boots, and glorious white pantaloons. He comes down and mounts his beaver. How cool he feels, like an uncut cucumber soaking at its ease in a marble ewer, or a surgeon cutting out a wart. He sets off for the church, swinging his cane in one hand, and his gloves in the other. It is a long walk, and the sun peeps over the leads of the adjacent houses. How like a king he struts along the street. You would swear he was Robinson Crusoe in disguise-monarch of all he surveys, or Prince Esterhazy, or somebody else. What an air of conscious innocence he has about him; you would swear he had never picked a pocket, or told a lie. You might suspect him of being a parson, but his vest - white - he is not a parson. He pursues the gentle current of his reflections down another street, and up another square, when suddenly just as he arrives within a quarter of a mile of the church, it strikes him like one fatal flash of blinding, dizzying lightning, that he is growing-warm! He goes on-hot! he goes on- - red!! has reached the Ultima Thule of horror to a moderately fleshy man in a white beaver and a black coat on a Sunday. He raises his beaver with his gloved hand, and a drop of something quietly falls from the curl of his hair on his shiny forehead, and rolls down to the middle of his cheek. Horrors on horrors! What is it? Can it be? Yes, moderately fleshy man thou art "Sweat, -hang it," he cries,- thou art in a violent perspiration! He How difficult it is for a man of the most quiet and reverential disposition to remain perfectly quiescent, in that strange place, which when a sheep is put into it, is called a-pen, and when a man, a-pew. To sit with your back for an hour against a straight unvarnished board, and your head supported only by your neck. Then those little shelves in the corners, which people erect to inflame their elbows upon, are anything but sympathetic, and those still more dangerous contrivances to a man of long legs, and almost every man's legs are long, denominated crickets; they certainly do give one the crick in his knees. A man who is trying not to go to sleep at church, is the most peculiar spectacle I have ever seen. There is a fascination in it to a spectator, which is unavoidable.Suppose yourself listening to one of those preachers sometimes met with, whose manner produces a similar effect on your feelings to that of the noise of a coffee-mill, while before you sits rather a short gentleman in a brown coat, who is bald, as the total loss of a man's hair is called- and no insurance; he is looking intently at the preacher, his cranium jerked back, and his skull in a line with you and the preacher. The bald man takes out his handkerchief and blows his nose violently. He then settles himself in his seat, or seats himself in his settle. He then coughs loudly two or three times, and looks about to see if any body is looking at him; he then folds his arms:a person supposed not to know what he is trying to do, would imagine he had the neuralgia all over him:-it is not that,he is trying not to go to sleep. Enough of Sunday in the city. In the country they manage all this sort of thing very differently. There all nature seems to be slumbering in the stillness of an immortal beauty, and a spell of holiness lays its mysterious presence on all living things. The air steals on our senses with a softer and more delicate perfume; the light tinges all the trees, meadows and streams with a shade of a higher beauty than one sees on week days. We feel in the country, that Sunday is in truth a day of rest; the very flies seem to buzz less energetically, and the bee remains in his hive. Not but what there is some stir in the family of good farmer Jones, on this blessed morning, for he and his wife, daughters, sons and servants are all going to the meeting, and rise early, as there is a good deal of work to do. Ma'am Jones leaves her daughters to dress themselves, but imposes it upon herself as a sacred duty to see that the tangled skeins of rope-yarn on her sons' heads, by analogy called hair, are duly smoothed down. Other parts of their wardrobe receive her motherly attention, and the care of the house is not entirely neglected, though the thorough Saturday cleaning makes the duties of this morning comparatively light. Bye and bye the first bell rings, the ladies retire to their several apartments at the sound, the final preparations are made, and at the ringing of the second bell the horses are driven up, a pair of venerable steeds, who have seen the best side of every thing, with lank bodies and lank faces, harnessed into a long box, which is not supported by springs, and in which there are a number of basket-work chairs. Into this a great number of the Joneses get, and proceed to church. What a joyous thing it is, to walk to church in the country through long, green lanes, lined with hedgerows, and trees of every species, the turf of the road hardly touched by the track of a wheel, the wind stirring the leaves of the bushes and shrubbery, and the birds singing sweetly among the branches. How unlike the heated glare of a city street, crowded by people, where nothing comes to refresh the eye, and where no pleasant sound falls upon the ear, unless it be the sharp click of brass-heeled boots on the pavement, or the swaying to and fro of the parasols, or the clatter of some disconsolate hackney-coach, or some more aristocratic equipage. The lumber-wagon of the Joneses as it glides past you, seems but the phantom of a turn-out, rolling as smoothly along the velvet turf, as a billiard ball over the marble slab. The Misses Jones are plainly dressed, and have mounted a family umbrella to shade them from the sunlight, while the boys appear in straw hats, wide shirt collars, and blue jackets and breeks. There is a kind of rusticity and country-life look in the whole thing, horses, wagon, old and young people, which gives it a place in the picture, and the springless phaton, as it slowly glides by, disturbs your holy speculations no more than the progression of a great, purple butterfly, or the scream of a widowed cat-bird among the barberry bushes. It is all of it the purest nature. Then the gathering at the meeting-house, how gracious it all seems. What an air of propriety in the demeanor of the young people,- what a degree of venerable sanctity among the grey-headed elders. The meeting-house itself has a tun.ble-down look, as if it was about to fall on its knees; and the rusty sheds behind, are already in that position. The minister as he walks in, has an air of honest, sturdy health, contrasting strongly with the pallid, worn down city clergyman, and he wears a good stout dress of the most unaffected homespun, instead of that feminine affair, a silk gown. Then list unto the singing at the country meeting-house, as they sing those eternal fugues which descend from father to son, and from church to church, the imperishable heir-looms of the choir. Hear the twang too, of the great bass viol, and the high, clear voices of the sweet country girls, and the deep, solemn tones of the elders. How a poet would love to describe these things. CINCINNATTI, OHIO. A FIRST LETTER. To the Editor of the Boston Miscellany: DEAR SIR,-If a gentleman had been commended to you as a lodger, was about to sit at your hearth and board for six months or more, to share your salt and conversation, and to be in a certain degree free of the house, you would make it your business, I imagine, to know something of the demeanor and habits of the man, something of his wants, perhaps, and where, and with whom he consorted. Your Magazine is your tenement, over which you are bound to keep skilful watch-to keep a look out at the gate, and to take note of any man, bearing the passport of manuscript about him, as he enters in. If I, therefore, as a contributor in esse to the Miscellany tell you that my writingwindow looks out upon the East river, and commands a pretty distinct view of Blackwell's Island and the public penitentiary, you have a guarantee in that, that I shall write nothing that will conflict with the decencies of life, or of a dangerous tendency to the peace of society. When I add, that by a glance a little farther on, I look into the very heart and bosom of the green woods and smooth meadows of Long Island, there is some hope in that, that a moral thought, some image caught fresh from the lap of nature, may be, at times, cast upon my page, and shed its fragrance over lines that might otherwise prove arid and barren. Ninth Street, New York, - } together to this one end, to have brought them all at one place, at one time. Then there are the three jolly butchers, going the other way, towards Bull's Head, on an afternoon, who entered the stage one by one, ten minutes or so apart, hailing each other in a voice that started the sedater passengers: indulging in familiarities, such as striking of knees with the open hand, and pulling of ears,-perfectly horrifying to the staid proprieties of a city omnibus. At the end of my omnibus journey, with many glimpses of metropolitan life through the side windows as we saunter or rattle along (according to the dilatory or impetuous mood of the driver's mind) I find myself in a small lodge, cabin, or office in Pine Street, next neighbor to the omnipotent Wall. Without so far breaking a professional obligation as to say who or what passes in or out of that small chamber of the law, I may tell you, as a matter in which you have a contingent interest, that underneath my own, lies another crib of like dimensions, entered by a few plunging steps, which take you so far into the bowels of the earth. Throughout the day, into this subterranean cavern, whether it be broker's shop, lawoffice, or druggist's cave I cannot tell, for there are signs about favoring in their way, each of these presumptions - descend a great number of white-headed, fusty old men, who linger there holding what gossip or discourse I could never guess. They are all of a tall build, with a lingering dignity in their gait and manner, which plainly betrays that they have not always constrained themselves in diving below the surface, when they would seek a drawingroom or council chamber. It at one time occurred to me, from the port and stateliness of its frequenters, that this subterranean Furthermore, when you have learned, that my morning task at the desk completed, I am a rider in omnibusses, having a choice of two lines at least, which traverse the city in its thickest ways, your readers might reasonably look for some glimpses of city humors, such as grow up by the way-side, throng the streets, or crowd at times into the very coach itself, and keep one in mirth and study the whole journey's length.-apartment might be an infirmary or hospital There are, for example, the twelve fat women, twelve, on my honor that pressed themselves one by one into the Bowery omnibus, one mysterious Saturday morning not long ago, until they formed an honest jury of matrons, forcing me upon the step, to stand there in the attitude of clerk to the inquest. Who they were, whence they came, and whither they tended, is an unexplained mystery. They may have been midwives, just off duty-a supposition too flattering, however to the growth of our metropolis: they may have been hucksters, on their way to market. But what an extraordinary coincidence, what a happy coalition of circumstances, all working of refuge for the various ex-governors of the States, who have lost rank and caste as politicians, and who have come here to pass the fag-end of their days at a distance from whatever might remind them of their lost youth and dwindled popularity. This belief is furthered by the attendance of a lame man of a red aspect, who constantly hobbles in and out, in service for them, bringing (disguise it cunningly as he may in the skirts of his coat) everlasting pots of porter and relays of cider. This conjecture, I should say, has been slightly dashed of late, by a rumor that prevails in the neighborhood that one of them, the tallest and finest looking of them all-is an ex-justice of peace from New Jersey. I shall get at the truth by and by, and when I do it shall be your copyright exclusive. Without saying a word as to the new aspect the town puts on when I return to Ninth Street at night, you should learn, that in the pause between a couple of chapters or articles, I have but to turn the corner on foot, and I am in the old time-honored and time-straitened (for they have shrunk by age to half their youthful dimensions) Vauxhall Gardens. If any man would cherish a better and higher opinion of his fellowmen than he cultivates so near Wall Street as is Pine and the adjacent purlieus let him visit Vauxhall. Let him learn that Vauxhall is kept by Mr. Bradford Jones; and let him, in investigating the principles and policy of Mr. Jones learn to think better of mankind. By a happy thought Mr. Bradford Jones admits visitors to his gardens, free: whereas such as penetrate the mysteries of his saloon are mulcted in a small tribute. Now as the chief glory of the saloon are its big drum, its pandean pipes and triangle, and as the saloon is divided from the gardens by a thin partition only, it is quite obvious what a fund of entertainment, in the way of music, a lounger may get, without succumbing even to the value of a copper to Mr. Jones. So that Mr. Bradford Jones, in the benevolence of a noble spirit, clips the box, waters the plants and sweeps clean the walks, and throws in abundant music, softened a little by the board partition, all from pure kindness of soul, save to a few country people and others, not quite thoroughly initiated in the ways of a metropolis, who are rash enough to lavish their means on the ill-whiskered man, who sits in a stall at the door, contemplating the world, like a great one-eyed ogre, through a round hole in the side of his cabin, and ready to be mollified by a donative in silver or current bank notes. Under this peculiar system of administration it is astonishing what a popular place of resort the Vauxhall gardens have become. They are frequented every night by admiring crowds, who do not hesitate to linger about the saloon drinking in with greedy ear the grateful sounds that issue thence; to express opinions most freely and pointedly, on the arrangements of the garden; and at times, do not stop even this side of sportive critical comment on the peculiar cut of the waiter's jackets, and the idle lives they are leading in loitering through the garden with tin trays in their hands, without serving any body with ginger-pop or ice creams! I have even seen some young lads, too, hardier than others, venture so far as to twist their hands into the door of the saloon and beg the leader of the orchestra to let them know the time of night at once, as they are sure the old woman's waiting anxiously for 'em, and they must be home to a minute of their time. This and like requests are occasionally followed by a reminder from a rattan or walking-staff in the hands of the attending officer, which rings the chimes equal to the best church bell in town. Inspired as is Mr. Bradford Jones, obviously by a generous and laudable public spirit, I regret to say that he has lent himself to certain papistical usages which must derogate from his character in the eyes of all good Christian people. He has, in a word, become a participator in what we had hoped, was an exploded practice, the sale of indulgences. Week-day visitors to the gardens are free to flow in and out with the air: but whoever dares to cross the sacred threshold of Vauxhall on a Sunday, is subjected to a mass or penance of twelve cents and a half, current money. Now that the trees look any smarter, or hold their heads any higher on the Sabbath than on any other day of the seven; that the air is clearer or sweeter; that the waiters are neater in apparel or swifter of foot, Mr. Bradford Jones does not, in any of his cards or posters, announce. But you have sufficient particulars already, Mr. Editor, from which to know whether you are to cherish any hope of entertainment or instruction from this metropolitan quarter. I wished to stand well with your readers at the start, and now that I have shown them, perhaps, that they may have a sketch of life taken fresh in an omnibus seat, something of the mysterious and heroic (a sound and shadow of fallen greatness,) in the white headed old fellows that haunt the subterranean chamber, and a web of romance, with a passage or two of love in the twilight groves of Vauxhall, I have but to subscribe myself, till the next moon or soon thereafter, your faithful penman and vassal. C. M. |