FullReads

* The following lines–ever fresh–by the author of
“Headlong Hall,” published years ago in the Globe and
Traveller, are an excellent comment on several of the cuts
from the “Sunday in London:”–

I.

“The poor man’s sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act,
Buying greens on Sunday morning.

II.

“The rich man’s sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station,
And escape the sight
Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.

III.

“The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;
The poor who would roast,
To the baker’s must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.

IV.

“The rich man’s painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;
The poor can but share
A crack’d fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.

V.

“The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer
Where the saint can’t choose but spy him.

VI.

“This rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society;
But the poor man’s delight
Is a sore in the sight
And a stench in the nose of piety.”

Against dandy footmen he is particularly severe. He hates idlers, pretenders, boasters, and punishes these fellows as best he may. Who does not recollect the famous picture, “What IS taxes, Thomas?” What is taxes indeed; well may that vast, over-fed, lounging flunky ask the question of his associate Thomas: and yet not well, for all that Thomas says in reply is, “I DON’T KNOW.” “O beati PLUSHICOLAE,” what a charming state of ignorance is yours! In the “Sketch-Book” many footmen make their appearance: one is a huge fat Hercules of a Portman Square porter, who calmly surveys another poor fellow, a porter likewise, but out of livery, who comes staggering forward with a box that Hercules might lift with his little finger. Will Hercules do so? not he. The giant can carry nothing heavier than a cocked-hat note on a silver tray, and his labors are to walk from his sentry-box to the door, and from the door back to his sentry-box, and to read the Sunday paper, and to poke the hall fire twice or thrice, and to make five meals a day. Such a fellow does Cruikshank hate and scorn worse even than a Frenchman.

The man’s master, too, comes in for no small share of our artist’s wrath. There is a company of them at church, who humbly designate themselves “miserable sinners!” Miserable sinners indeed! Oh, what floods of turtle-soup, what tons of turbot and lobster-sauce must have been sacrificed to make those sinners properly miserable. My lady with the ermine tippet and draggling feather, can we not see that she lives in Portland Place, and is the wife of an East India Director? She has been to the Opera over-night (indeed her husband, on her right, with his fat hand dangling over the pew-door, is at this minute thinking of Mademoiselle Leocadie, whom he saw behind the scenes)–she has been at the Opera over-night, which with a trifle of supper afterwards–a white-and-brown soup, a lobster-salad, some woodcocks, and a little champagne–sent her to bed quite comfortable. At half-past eight her maid brings her chocolate in bed, at ten she has fresh eggs and muffins, with, perhaps, a half-hundred of prawns for breakfast, and so can get over the day and the sermon till lunch-time pretty well. What an odor of musk and bergamot exhales from the pew!–how it is wadded, and stuffed, and spangled over with brass nails! what hassocks are there for those who are not too fat to kneel! what a flustering and flapping of gilt prayer-books; and what a pious whirring of bible leaves one hears all over the church, as the doctor blandly gives out the text! To be miserable at this rate you must, at the very least, have four thousand a year: and many persons are there so enamored of grief and sin, that they would willingly take the risk of the misery to have a life-interest in the consols that accompany it, quite careless about consequences, and sceptical as to the notion that a day is at hand when you must fulfil YOUR SHARE OF THE BARGAIN.