Why? Because there's a woman, at the corner of that street, spreading out on her stall, apples and candy, and bananas, and oranges, and cookies, and sugar-toys, and melons, and cocoa-nuts, and ginger beer; because there's a cigar shop—(the shutters, closed to be sure,) but with the door wide open, and the owner already beginning to trade with customers; because, there's a man selling bouquets, and a confectioner's saloon open, and people eating ice-creams in it; and little ragged news boys, who have been screeching ever since day-light, "New York Herald—Times—Sunday Despatch—dreadful collision and lass o' life—Times, Despatch, and Herald"—and drunken men whom you meet at every few blocks, and people going everywhere but into the church doors.
Well, you go into a city church,—it is not like yours in the country, where the blessed sunlight shines cheerfully in, and the sweet breeze wafts through the open windows the breath of clover blossoms and new mown hay; where the minister preaches to poor people, who are not forced to carry a dictionary to church; where people don't frown and hastily button the pew door when a stranger comes in; where neighbors smile kindly on each other, and never gather up the folds of their dress lest it should sweep against a shilling de-laine; where good "Old Hundred" and "St. Martins" are sung, instead of twistified, finical, modern tunes, that old-fashioned folks can't follow; where the minister is not too stately to pat the little children on the head coming out the porch, or to give them a pleasant smile to make them feel that they are part of his parish; where they all walk home, not over crowded, dusty pavements, but under the leafy trees, with hearts filled with a quiet joy, seeing "the cattle on a thousand hills," the springs which run among the hills, "and the birds which build their houses in the branches;" where the golden sun goes down, not on the bloated drunkard and noisy Sabbath breaker, but on the hale old man "of silver hairs," teaching the cherub on his knee to lisp the evening hymn—upon kneeling groups under cottage roofs, where envy and hatred and ill-will find no resting place for their swift and evil feet. That is what Aunt Fanny calls Sunday.
Children, there is one thing I like in New-York: almost all the churches have "the ivy green" clambering over the windows and turrets, and pretty willow trees drooping their graceful branches about the doorways. I love to see it, because I love the beautiful, and because it is pleasant to get even a glimpse of nature in the artificial city. But I don't like the stained glass windows. I don't like to see the congregation with green eyes and pink noses and blue cheeks and yellow lips. It excites my troublesome bump of mirthfulness, (and that's wrong, you know, in church;) beside, I catch myself examining the windows, to see if there are any two of them alike, and counting the red and pink and blue diamonds, and squares, and wondering whether, were they transposed this way and that way, the effect would not be better. And then I know that most of those windows are so arranged that they can't be opened, to let in the fresh air, and that gives me a stifled feeling, and I involuntarily untie my bonnet strings, and draw a long breath, to see if my breathing apparatus is all right!
No, I don't like these modern improvements (?) in churches: in fact, to tell you the truth, I had rather worship, like the old Covenanters, among the green hills—the blue sky for a roof, the gnarled old tree trunks for pillars, the branches for galleries, and the birds for an orchestra; and unless the minister preached because his heart was so full of love to God that he couldn't help preaching, I should rather hear my Maker preach to me, in the soft whisper of the leaves, the happy hum of the tiny insect, and the low, soft murmur of the stream.
Now, my dear children, don't mistake me. It is our duty to go to church; and it is wrong to think of anything else in church but worshipping God; but there's so much display, and show, and fashion now-a-days, in the churches—so much to distract the thoughts—so much hollow pretension to piety, that I sometimes feel, as I told you, that I would rather worship amid the green hills, like the old persecuted Covenanters. Oh! there was heart in their worship! they sang every hymn as if they might sing the next one in Heaven.
So ought we! Are you tired of my sermon?
Well, what do you think I saw here in New-York to-day? A boy of eight years old walking in the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, smoking a cigar! I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry at the little monkey. Finally, I laid my hand on his shoulder and said,
"You don't like that nasty cigar, I hope, my dear child." He blushed, and taking it out of his mouth, said,
"Yes, I do, but I'll throw it away if you want me to."
"Thank you," said I, "for your politeness, but it is not of myself I was thinking. I can easily get out of the way of it, you know, but it is such a shocking bad habit to get into; so young as you are, too. Oh, you have no idea how much it costs to smoke. You must always offer a friend one, else he will call you 'a stingy fellow.' Why, my dear boy, only think, it will take all your pocket money to buy cigars. You forget that by and by, you will want a store in Broadway, full of goods, and clerks to sell them, and a house to live in, and may be a wife, too; ah, you needn't laugh, for I don't believe you'll be able to get a wife if you keep on smoking till you get old enough to be engaged. By that time you'll be so stupefied, that nobody will have you!